Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Rakesh would not take it at first. He just stood there and glared. But there were three more, and eventually we tucked them into our trousers and went on.

What wonders there were in that valley! For a long time we stood and marvelled. We found the head of a coconut palm which had snapped off the trunk. It was heavy with fresh, tender coconuts. Right there we broke open six of them with a bit of steel and drank their water. There were roses still blooming, and clouds of wilting magnolias.

But it was when we reached the basement that we stood gaping with astonishment — even Rakesh, who had seen it before. The basement’s ceiling had collapsed as I thought, but miraculously a massive slab of concrete had fallen across the opening, sheltering it from the storm of wreckage that must have come after the collapse. Even more amazing, it had not sealed the basement completely. It lay at a steep angle, held up on one side by a bent girder, so all the wreckage had slid off it, and no rubble blocked the hole in the basement’s ceiling.

Still, it was tricky there, for we were standing on a part of the basement’s ceiling that might collapse at any moment. We lay flat on our stomachs and crawled forward. I looked up, but I had to look quickly away again for there were immense girders and huge slabs of concrete poised over us, hanging, as though they were waiting to fall. Once my elbow broke something, and at once there was a smell, so strong and so sweet, it sent us reeling. I shone my torch down and we saw hundreds of tiny bottles of perfume, strewn all around us. Near the edge of the basement we were hardly breathing, for the slightest slip could have sent us straight into that hole. At the lip we stopped and looked into the still blackness beneath.

As soon as I shone my torch down we both exclaimed, for we could hardly believe the depth of that room. We talked about it for a while, but in the end there could be no doubt that it was the same room we had been working in that day. I shone my torch all around it, but it was like using a pin to cut a bale of cloth. We could only see a thing at a time — overturned sewing machines, ovens with their doors thrown open, like huge laughing mouths, all kinds of things. We worked the torch all over that room, but all we could see was machinery strewn about the place, and rubble. There was no sign of Alu.

We should go down, Rakesh whispered, maybe he’s unconscious. And I said: How? We’d need ropes and many more men. We have to come back tomorrow.

Then Rakesh said: We should call the police or the contractor and tell them to get him out. And I said to him: What would happen then? Maybe they’d get him or his corpse out, but the first thing they’d discover after that is that he has no work permit and no passport. He’d go straight into gaol. Then they’d find out who he was working with. And then we’d follow him into gaol. We have to leave that to the last — only if we can’t get him out ourselves.

Suddenly, behind us: Phow! Like a revolver. I turned around as quick as a thought, my hands ready.

Phow! again. It was Isma’il, standing on a girder, pointing an electric hair-dryer at us and pretending to shoot. He called out to us, happily, as though we were at a wedding: He’s there. Haven’t you found him yet?

Then Isma’il went to the edge of that black hole and shouted down: Alu? His shout grew inside that huge pit, echoing and booming until the rubble behind us started to slide. I clapped a hand on his mouth and pulled him back before he could do it again. Then the echoes died away, and quite distinctly we heard Alu’s voice.

All right, all right, Hajj Fahmy smiled across the steaming, smoke-filled room at Abu Fahl. Was he there or not? What did he say? Just tell us.

Yes, said Abu Fahl. He was there, but we couldn’t see him. He was under a heap of rubble, broken machinery and pots of paint. There were two massive concrete beams projecting out of the heap. We couldn’t believe that anyone could be alive under all that. It seemed impossible. Then he said he was trapped under the heap, but there was a steel girder across him holding up the beams.

Was he hurt? Hajj Fahmy asked.

No, he said he wasn’t hurt at all. He was perfectly all right.

Did you see him?

No, we couldn’t. I told you. But that’s what he said. We asked him if he needed food or water and he said: No.

That was a strange thing. He said: No, I’m all right, I don’t need anything. We told him we would be back tomorrow and he laughed. Yes, he laughed. He said: It’s all right. Come when you can. And while he was speaking your son Isma’il shouted down to him: Alu, have you seen the Sheikh of the Mawali?

Abu Fahl broke off and looked curiously across at Hajj Fahmy: Who is this sheikh?

Hajj Fahmy looked away, embarrassed, and twisted the hem of his jallabeyya around his fingers. Before he could say anything, Isma’il broke in: He’s Sheikh Musa the Mawali. He was buried there and he protects everyone who passes by.

Hajj Fahmy clapped a hand on his shoulder. Be quiet, Isma’in, he said sharply. He turned to the others: It’s just a bit of harmless nonsense the Mawali women believe. It’s blasphemous, and I’ve argued with them a thousand times, but they believe it. Never mind. Carry on. Did he say anything else?

Yes, said Abu Fahl hesitantly. He took off his cap and ran his hands through his hair. He turned and called out: Zindi, are you listening?

Zindi was staring out of the door, biting her lip, her face screwed small with worry. She started and turned to Abu Fahl: Yes, yes, of course I’m listening. Go on.

Abu Fahl said: For a while he was quiet. Then he told us that he was thinking. We said: What are you thinking about? And he answered: I’m thinking about dirt and cleanliness. I’m thinking and I’m making plans.

Dirt and cleanliness? Hajj Fahmy’s voice rose in incredulity.

Yes, that’s what he said. He said: I’m thinking about cleanliness and dirt and the Infinitely Small.

Abu Fahl woke early next morning, worrying. It was taken for granted that, if there was to be another expedition to the Star, Abu Fahl would be its leader. So, as if by right, it fell to Abu Fahl to worry.

First, there was the problem of finding men to go with them to the Star. And where were they to find the men? They would probably have to hire them from one of the construction gangs in the Ras. But they would almost certainly expect to be paid (for they would be losing the day’s wages). In all likelihood they would have to be paid extra because of the risks. Where was the money to come from? And tools: they’d need shovels for the rubble; ropes; maybe ladders as well, to lower themselves to the basement; perhaps even blowtorches for the steel girders. Where was he to get the tools? And, even if he found some, how were they to carry them through a cordon of policemen?

Abu Fahl shook Zindi, asleep beside him: What are we to do, Zindi? Can you think of a plan? Zindi grunted, pushed a leg between his and shut her eyes again. Abu Fahl taxed her later: You don’t care whether that boy you brought into this house — you, yourself — you don’t care whether he lives or dies.

Zindi gave him a drowsy answer: I know he’s alive and I know you’ll get him out somehow. What more is there to say? In the meanwhile someone has to think of the future and other things, too. We still have to go on living.

Abu Fahl fell silent: the beginnings of a plan were already stirring in his mind. He and Rakesh would visit the two construction gangs in the Ras before they left for work, and explain the situation. Some of the men might agree to work free. After all, it could happen to anyone — that was the point to press home.