Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

The Malik was rarely seen after that, though he was, and still is, said to be the ruler. He was left in the Old Fort, but more as a prisoner than a king. They say the Amir found and seized a vast trove of arms in the Fort. The Oilmen offered to pension the old Malik off in their own country, but they could only have carried his dead body out of the Fort, so the Amir had to be content with leaving him there, with his own guards posted outside. But, still, he’ll never have a day’s rest as long as the Malik still lives, for no one can tell what the old man is plotting.

And Jeevanbhai: all his businesses and ships, his warehouses and customs contracts were seized. Only his shop in the Souq and his office near the harbour were left to him. For years he was a broken man. But his happy couples didn’t forget him, and with a little bit of help he started again. What little he has today he had to build up anew. Then, just when he thought he still had his gods’ blessings, his wife died, and today he is the walking corpse you see. A man can try only so many times and no more. That’s why Jeevanbhai has taken to drinking in the secrecy of his shop.

Jabal the Eunuch moved to the New Palace and soon became one of the Amir’s closest advisers. The Amir never forgot that he may have lost the Battle of the Date Palms if it were not for Jabal, and he slipped a dozen or so of the most lucrative British and American agencies into his lap, and today they say Jabal the Mountainous Eunuch has grown into a whole cordillera, with enough money to buy a continent to spread himself out on.

The Amir found out which shopkeepers had supplied Jeevanbhai with kerosene that night, and their shops were seized, every single one, and distributed among the Amir’s friends. Soon after, the fairs on the empty site were stopped as well.

The New City appeared overnight, like a mushroom. The Oilmen forgot all about a new Oiltown, for the whole country was their Oiltown now.

For years that bit of land on the edges of the New City was left as it was, covered with charred date palms. Then, long afterwards, when the Amir judged the Battle of the Date Palms forgotten, he had the plot cleared, and later the Corniche was laid around it. Then, last year, people said that a group of Ghaziri companies were putting up money to build a market greater than any in the continent; an immense shopping arcade, with five pointed arms, in celebration of the starry future. It would be called an-Najma, the Star, and it was to be built on a marshy, useless bit of land at the far end of al-Ghazira near the border. Nobody knew at first where the money was going to come from; the newspapers gave the names of unknown companies.

Truth lies in silences.

That money was put up by Jabal, King of the Eunuchs, and his friends.

Hajj Fahmy retreated into a long silence. No one in the room spoke, for they knew there were many twists and turns to the Hajj’s storytelling. At length, the Hajj put up his hand again.

Let me tell you now, he said, why the Star fell. It fell because no one wanted it. The Malik didn’t want it: he hasn’t forgotten one moment of the Battle of the Date Palms and never will. Nobody in the Souq wanted it: they haven’t forgotten the Battle, either, nor the confiscations. Besides, none of them had been allotted a shop in the Star. If the Star had actually opened, how long would the Souq have lasted? The Mawali didn’t want the Star because of their sheikh’s grave. The contractors who built it didn’t care whether it stood or fell — they had made their money anyway. The lovers who went there at night didn’t want it; the smugglers who landed there didn’t want it; Jabal and his friends didn’t want it — they’ll be happier with the insurance money. Did even the Amir want it? His money’s far away in some safe country, and nothing that happens in al-Ghazira matters to him much.

No one wanted the Star. That was why the Star fell: a house which nobody wants cannot stand.

Hajj Fahmy leant back against the wall, sighing with exhaustion. After a long while Abu Fahl broke the silence with a laugh. For an old man, he said, a grain of sand can become the Dome of the Rock. Nothing is simple. Anybody can see why the Star fell: it fell because too much sand was mixed with the cement. Anyone with any experience of building can see that. There is no mystery to it. Alu had no experience of building, so he reacted too slowly and got himself caught in the wreckage while everyone else managed to get away. Finished. Some things are simple.

Abu Fahl threw a dismissive glance across the room at Hajj Fahmy. The Hajj did not see it, for his eyes were shut. It was Rakesh who spoke: You really think it’s so simple, Abu Fahl? The words were forced out of his throat with a visible effort: Rakesh was not a man who relished being conspicuous in a crowd.

Abu Fahl, artlessly skilled in carrying an audience, looked around the room smiling, encouraging laughter. Yes, he said to Rakesh, it’s really that simple.

Then, maybe, said Rakesh, there’s something you don’t know. You say Alu didn’t run out with us because he didn’t realize that the building was going to collapse? The truth is that Alu was the first among us to hear the rumbles and the noise of the falling bricks and plaster. At the time he had just discovered two sewing machines, meant for display, under a tarpaulin sheet. When he heard the noise, he left the machines uncovered and pushed us out of the basement. That was before you shouted to us. I was already running when I heard you. I stopped once on the stairs — the walls were already buckling all around — and I saw that Alu wasn’t behind me. I ran back and looked into the showroom. I couldn’t see much because there was dust everywhere but, still, I’m certain I saw him carefully covering those two machines. I shouted to him: Run, Alu. He turned and waved me on, and if it were not for the dust I would swear I saw him smile. Then the rumbles grew louder, and I ran up the stairs, while Alu stayed behind, perhaps still smiling.

As soon as the plane took off from Bombay, Jyoti Das knew that the light-headedness he was feeling had nothing to do with the altitude. He had been in planes before; planes didn’t make you feel quite like that. It was a mystery; he could think of no explanation.

It became a little clearer when he talked to the man who was sitting next to him. He was a motor mechanic from Gujarat and he was going to al-Ghazira because he had been offered a job which would pay him, in a month, more or less as much as an ASP earned in a year, allowances included. But, still, there were problems, the mechanic complained: no medical benefits, no accommodation, no security at all. It was all a big worry. Would he fall ill? Would he be able to find a place to live? Would his boss be reasonable or not? Would he save enough money to get married at the end of it? No escape — worries everywhere, no matter what you were paid. Listening to him, Jyoti suddenly felt his light-headedness throwing him into somersaults; blowing the weights off his feet.

He knew then that it didn’t matter, at least for a while. Things like that matter only at home, and foreign places are all alike in that they are not home. Nothing binds you there.

And it became clearer still when he looked through his window and saw an indentation on the horizon, barely visible, no more really than a speck of dust on the glass, but enough to snap something tight in his stomach and send surges of excitement coursing through him. The hairs rose all along his arm, and he had to grip the sides of the seat to hold himself steady. He knew that his swimming head had no connection with that hint of sand in the distance. It would have made no difference whether that bit of land was al-Ghazira or Antarctica. The journey was within and it was already over, for the most important part was leaving.