Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

But Isma’il, Hajj Fahmy’s fourth son, did nothing at all. He had no skill at weaving, and though he talked occasionally of learning plumbing no one took him seriously. He was known to be unusually dim-witted, more or less an idiot. He spent his days wandering about the Ras, talking to people and wandering into whichever shack took his fancy for his meals. Yet, of all his sons, Isma’il was the dearest to Hajj Fahmy. He wouldn’t hear of his wife’s plans to push him into a trade. We have enough, he said. Isma’il helps us live with it in peace.

Soon after Hajj Fahmy and the other Mawali families began to make money, they tore down their barasti huts and built themselves large, strong houses of brick and cement. At the time, some of the Mawali had said to Hajj Fahmy: Why don’t we leave the Ras and its stinking beaches, and go into the city?

Never, Hajj Fahmy had answered. In al-Ghazira the Ras is where we belong. Still, some of the Mawali left. But most of them stayed, for they knew instinctively that Hajj Fahmy was right — the Mawali had always kept to themselves in al-Ghazira. Old Musa had fetched wives for his sons from his own village in Egypt. After that the Mawali had always married amongst themselves. They spoke the Arabic of Musa’s village with each other. They even wore its dress — jallabeyyas and woollen caps. Often, the men wore shirts and trousers, but never the flowing robes of the Ghaziris. Why this should be, no one knew. It was just so.

When the Ras began to fill up with shacks and people from all the corners of the world, the Mawali were alarmed. They went to Hajj Fahmy and said: What shall we do now? Soon our houses will be pushed into the sea.

Hajj Fahmy had laughed: How will they push our houses into the sea, when ours are the only solid houses in the Ras? Let them come to the Ras if they keep out of our way. The Ras gave us shelter; let it give them shelter. Besides, think of the business they’ll bring.

One of his cousins opened a grocery-shop at one end of the Ras and within months he was rich. After that the Mawali never again worried about the crowds in the Ras. And the others in the Ras, for their part, left the Mawali alone and never encroached on their houses.

It was only natural that there should be a close link between the Mawali and the inhabitants of the only other permanent house in the Ras — Zindi’s. No one knew how long back the connection stretched, but it was said that when Zindi first came to al-Ghazira from Egypt, as a young and buxom beauty, it was Hajj Fahmy who first found her a place and cared for her, almost as he did for his own wife. Zindi’s house grew and she found other friends, but nothing ever interfered in her friendship with Hajj Fahmy. Zindi and her house kept his interest in the world alive, Hajj Fahmy would say, and he was always one of the first to visit her house when she returned from one of her trips to Egypt or India. It was inevitable that he would meet Alu sooner or later. But, as it happened, when Mariamma arrived the Hajj did not hear of it for a few days. Instead, one evening a young, lumpy-headed man whom he had never seen before was led into the room in which he received guests.

He had heard, Hajj Fahmy said, that we have a loom in the house. Of course no one uses it now but me, and that rarely. When I do I think myself a fool, because in the past I wove because I needed the money, and now I weave because I have nothing else to do. Anyway I showed it to him. He walked around it, looking at it carefully, but he didn’t touch it. He was thinking. Who knows what he was thinking? We couldn’t ask him because then he didn’t know any Arabic, and all we had to talk in was signs. Next day he was back, with yarn. He set about warping the loom and a week later he was weaving. He was a little clumsy in the beginning. He said the loom wasn’t like those he knew. But after a few days his hands were flying over it, and everyone in the house used to gather around to marvel at his skill. After that he used to come in the evenings, when he had finished the day’s work with Abu Fahl and the others. He said it made him feel well again after a day of painting walls. He wove cloth for the whole house — soft, fine cloth (of course, we gave him a little money) — cloth of that kind is beyond my skill, Zindi, really. To tell you the truth, I often thought to myself: Why, I could start a business with the cloth this boy makes. If he could work on that loom all day long, instead of painting houses, Allahu yia’alam , God knows how much money he could make. I tell you, I often thought of setting up a business with that boy, often … Anyway, my heart was glad to see that loom being used at last, and my father would have been glad, too. And once Alu began to talk Arabic like any of us everyone in the house came to love him, though he wasn’t a Muslim. I myself, I loved him like a grandson. Yesterday, when we heard about the collapse, my house wept. I wept. Then today we heard rumour after rumour. Of course, the women in the house started talking about the Sheikh …

What sheikh? Zindi broke in.

Oh, no one — an odd idea some of the Mawali women have. Anyway, as soon as I heard the rumours I sent Isma’il to your house to find out. He didn’t come back, and only our Lord knows where he is. So then I set out myself. I said: I must find out from Zindi herself what’s become of Alu.

Zindi stiffened suddenly, alerted by a noise in the lane outside. She was at the door before the first knock. She flung the door open, throwing her tarha askew in her haste. There were half a dozen men outside, some of them Mawali, some Indian and some Egyptian. Forid Mian was not among them.

Zindi, tell us the truth, one of them said. What’s happened to Alu?

I don’t know, Zindi said abruptly. Abu Fahl has gone to find out.

What about some tea, then, Zindi? someone else called out.

Reluctantly Zindi let them in. For many years the men of the Ras had gathered at Zindi’s house in the evenings to talk and drink tea. There were no cafés or tea-shops in the Ras or even near it, so Zindi’s house had become a surrogate. Zindi usually made a fair profit, for she charged much more for tobacco and tea than any café would have dared. People complained, but not much. They knew no café could match the stories and the tea that were to be had at Zindi’s. It was said that a man learnt more about the Ras and al-Ghazira and even the world in one evening at Zindi’s than from a month’s television.

As the evening wore on, the knocks on the door grew increasingly frequent. Every time she heard a knock Zindi jumped, with the surprising agility she could sometimes command, to open the door. Each time she was disappointed. As the news of Abu Fahl and Rakesh’s expedition spread around the Ras, the curious crowd in Zindi’s house grew. But of Forid Mian there was no sign.

Slowly, as the rooms filled, the heat and tension grew. Zindi had to open the windows, much as she disliked it, for the room had become a steaming oven, and everybody was drenched in sweat. The whole of Zindi’s attention was concentrated on the door and Forid Mian. Her hands began to shake and she could no longer bring herself to make tea, so Zaghloul had to do it, while she stared out into the lane.

Soon conversation in the room faltered and died away. Two men began to argue about a narjila. The argument grew into a quarrel, and suddenly the room was divided. Zaghloul nudged Zindi. She took one look and she was worried — usually Abu Fahl handled these situations. One of the men reached for the neck of the other man’s jallabeyya, and at that moment Isma’il burst into the room, his jallabeyya torn, his plump, pink cheeks and light brown hair smudged with dust.

Where have you been, Isma’in? his father said gravely.