Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

What’re you doing, beta ? Lal exclaimed in irritation.

Jyoti, watching the boy, saw that his hands had begun to shake and drops of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Suddenly a heavy, putrid smell filled the room.

Jyoti glanced quickly around the room in surprise. Then he looked at the boy. A stain was spreading across the back of his shorts, and a yellow mess was dribbling down his thighs. He was sucking his thumb again.

Beta ! Lal exploded. He stopped and drew in his breath. Then he caught Jyoti’s arm and pulled him out of the room. Slamming the door on the boy, he shouted towards the kitchen: Babs, go and look. He’s done it again.

He hurried Jyoti to the balcony. His forelock had fallen across his face and his hands shook as he splashed whisky into their glasses. Jyoti stood frozen in a corner.

Everything’s going wrong, Lal said. Nothing’s right any longer; it’s all chaos. It worries me. I’m very worried.

Zindi counted through the hours for ten days before she allowed herself to go looking for Forid Mian again. On the morning of the tenth day, at ten o’clock — not too early to make her journey seem like anything but an ordinary shopping trip — she put Boss on her hip and set out for the Souq. When she reached the front door she stopped, suddenly remembering the plastic bag Professor Samuel had left for her that morning. She went back to her room to fetch it. It was a large bulging bag, with colourful advertisements for cigarettes printed on both sides. It was very heavy, for it contained forty-two aluminium lemon-squeezers.

Zindi hurried through the Ras to the embankment, ignoring the faces that were pointedly turned away from her on the way. As she scrambled up the slope of the embankment, the plastic bag seemed to grow heavier and heavier, until she was struggling to pull it along, like a ship fighting a dragging anchor. She cursed the lemon-squeezers, cursed Professor Samuel, cursed Alu and the whole of the Ras. When she reached the road at the top, she knew she would not be able to walk all the way to the Souq, as she had planned, so she squatted on the gravel at the side of the road and waited for a share-taxi. There was very little traffic on the road, nothing more than an occasional speeding truck. The road began to shimmer in the heat of the climbing sun, and soon the heavy cloth of her black fustan was drenched to the ankles in sweat. She began to worry about Boss, who was squirming quietly in the sun. After a while, she took off her scarf, baring the thin hair on her head to the sun, and draped it over him. A yellow and black taxi materialized like a mirage somewhere in the shimmering haze on the road, and she ran out to stop it. It swerved neatly past her and disappeared, blaring a tune on its musical horn. Zindi went back to the side of the road, cursing: Sons of bitches, shit … Now she was too impatient to sit down again, and she squinted down the road standing, shifting Boss from one hip to the other. Ten days was not such a long time, but some ten days were worse than others. These had been as bad as any she could have imagined; worse, because she could not have imagined these. She had had to lock herself into the house every day to keep herself from rushing off to the Souq and Forid Mian. The Souq was hope. That was why she had denied it to herself for so many days — so that the taste of it would be the sweeter when it came. Not just that, of course. Every time temptation threatened to overwhelm her, she had reminded herself of all the reasons why she had decided on ten days, no more, no less. Ten days was just right: long enough to make her, Zindi, seem disinterested; enough to let Forid Mian think a bit, worry a bit; but not so long that their conversation would slip from his mind. Ten days was just right.

Here was another taxi, a large one this time, an old Mercedes-Benz. She stood in the middle of the road with her arms stretched out, like a traffic policeman, and it stopped. It took her some time, and a little help, to climb out again, when the taxi drew up at the Maidan al-Jami‘i. Kam ? she asked the young, curly-haired driver, reaching into the neck of her dress for her purse.

One dirham, he said.

What? she shouted. You son of a …

He laughed: Yes, Mother?

She had to forgive him: that was clever enough to make him an Egyptian, even though his accent didn’t sound it. Laughing to herself, she turned and saw the Bab al-Asli across the square, guarding hope, and everything left her mind but the main intention. She forgot that she had meant to dispose of the lemon-squeezers first. She hurried across the square, through the Bab, and turned into the first lane. There it was, the Durban Tailoring House, conspicuous by its dimness in that row of shining shops.

Forid Mian was there after all: that was one ten-day-long worry she’d forgotten this morning. She stood in the passageway for a minute, and looked the shop over again, critically judging its length, its breadth, weighing its possibilities. It didn’t disappoint her, as she had feared it might.

She bustled in, trying to look busy. Ah, Forid Mian! she said, putting her plastic bag down on the floor. How are you?

He was working at his sewing machine. How are you? he answered politely.

She lifted Boss with both her hands and put him down on his back on a pile of cloth on the counter.

Don’t do that, Zindi, Forid Mian cried in alarm. He’ll wet the …

No, don’t worry, she said. He never pisses on strange clothes. He’s not like other children.

Forid Mian looked at her sceptically and went back to his sewing machine. Zindi seated herself on a stool and leant back against the counter. For a long while she said nothing. The approaches and openings she had so carefully prepared slipped out of her mind while she looked around the shop, taking in small details, like the exposed wiring near the switches. Somewhere at the back of her mind she tried to work out what it would cost to make the place respectable again. Then, with a start, she remembered Forid Mian and turned. She caught him darting her a sidelong glance.

So, Zindi, he said quickly, what brings you to the Souq?

Oh, just some shopping, Zindi said. I was passing by and I thought I’d come around and see how Forid Mian is.

Forid Mian leant back against the wall and looked at her, his dull eyes opaque. You’re thinking about me a lot nowadays, Zindi, he said.

Of course, Zindi said blandly, I always think about old friends.

What were you thinking? said Forid Mian.

Oh, many things. I was thinking about that funny thing you said that night. How are the nights going now? Still rubbing hard on dry sheets, hoping to set them on fire?

Zindi threw her head back and laughed.

Forid Mian lowered his eyes and looked at the bulging plastic bag on the floor. What’s in that? he said, pointing with a bent, pencil-thin finger.

Oh, that, said Zindi, still shaking with laughter. That’s lemon-squeezers. Forty-two lemon-squeezers.

Forid Mian gasped: Forty-two lemon-squeezers! What are you going to do with forty-two lemon-squeezers? Start a fruit-juice stall?

No, no. Zindi shook her head, wondering why they were talking about lemon-squeezers. They’re not for me, she said quickly. I needed some money this morning, and there was no money in the Ras, so Professor Samuel sent these — someone who works in some shop or factory had got hold of them and left them with him. If I want money for the shopping, I have to sell these.

Sell these? For money? Forid Mian looked at her in bewilderment.

Yes, she said exasperated. That’s what happened. Yesterday was Thursday, the end of the week. The people in the house usually give me the week’s money on Thursday. But now there’s no money in the Ras; it’s all in accounts and account-books. In banks, and Professor Samuel’s files. Anyway, they didn’t give me any money. Samuel said he’s put it all in my account and entered it against my name and all that. But I wanted money. Money. What’s the use of numbers? So I said: You sister-fucking arsehole, I want money. Cash. But then he called all the others, and even Abu Fahl turned against me. I said: I want money. What’s the use of an account-book? Can you pay for a bus with an account-book? I haven’t been out of the Ras for more than a week and I’m going to the Souq tomorrow. I need money. So she said, that bitch Karthamma: Why’d you want to go out of the Ras? You don’t do any work. We do the work; you should stay here and clean the house. As if. So I said: I’ll tear your eyes out if you try to keep me here for one more day, you ungrateful bitch. Then she shouted, and I shouted. And I said to Samuel: Why don’t you give me one of those envelopes with money inside, like you give the others when they go out of the Ras? And he said that all the envelopes had already been given out for the next day. Then later he said he had these … these lemon-squeezers, so I took them. Luckily I had a bit of cash in my purse, and Kulfi gave me a bit.