Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Zindi stopped, her chest heaving, her eyes bloodshot. Why’re you asking all this? she said. You’d know all about it anyway, if you didn’t live like a snail, hidden away in the Souq.

Then a thought struck her, and she looked at him anxiously: Do you want to buy some? She took a lemon-squeezer from the bag and handed it to him. He played with the handles, opening and shutting it like a pair of scissors.

How much? he said.

Two dirhams? she answered tentatively.

No. He shook his head.

One-fifty?

I don’t really want it, he said and handed it back to her.

No, Zindi laughed. I’d forgotten. It’s something else you want to squeeze now. No?

What do you mean, Zindi?

Well … something like a wife?

Forid Mian didn’t answer. Zindi leant towards him: Don’t you remember? We were talking about your marriage that night?

Forid Mian rose abruptly from his stool. It seems to me, Zindi, he said, that you’re thinking about my marriage much more than I am.

Zindi laughed, attempting unconcern. Of course I think about your marriage, she said. If I didn’t, who would? Don’t you remember how you said that night that you’d like to get married and settle down in your Chatgan and leave all this behind? Don‘t you remember? I think there’s a chance, just a chance, that it might be arranged.

Forid Mian began to tidy one of the shelves behind the counter. I don’t know what I was talking about that night, he said. I must have gone crazy. Why should I want to go back to Chatgan when everyone in Chatgan is trying to get here?

Zindi stared at him in uncomprehending disbelief. But, she began, you said …

Oh, I was just talking.

Zindi looked wildly, tearfully around the shop. Instinctively her hand rose to scratch her mole. But, listen, she said, there must be something …

Why, Zindi, Forid Mian said loudly, are you so interested in my marriage?

Zindi impatiently waved the question away. Listen, she said, what about, what if we get you married here ?

Here? Forid Mian turned from the shelf and stared at her. To whom?

To someone. Zindi compressed her lips and squeezed out a smile. But you tell me first, what do you think of the idea?

How can I tell you, until you tell me?

To Kulfi-didi, Zindi said, and watched the narrowing of his eyes with triumph. Do you know her? She lives in my house.

Let me see, said Forid Mian, stroking his stringy white beard. Tell me what she’s like.

She’s fair; very fair. And she has a nice figure — not full exactly, but not thin, either. She’s a widow. She’s nice. You’ll like her.

Forid Mian nodded. Yes, he said, I think I’ve seen her in the Souq.

What do you think?

Forid Mian shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but Zindi was quick to spot the suddenly lustful twist of his mouth. But do you think she’ll be willing? he said. She must be Hindu.

Let’s see, said Zindi, let’s see. She stopped and looked at him hard. But there’s one thing, Forid Mian, she went on softly. And that is this. If it’s arranged, you’ll have to come and live in my house, and you’ll have to leave Jeevanbhai and start working for me.

Forid Mian was suddenly very frightened. No, Zindi, he said, biting his knuckles. No, I can’t do that. How could I tell Jeevanbhai? What would Jeevanbhai do? No, no, Zindi, I can’t.

Zindi rose and patted his shoulder. Don’t worry, Forid, she said. I know you’re scared of him, but I’m not. You leave him to me; I’ll deal with him. And khud balak , remember, don’t be so scared. There’s not a thing he can do to you.

Forid Mian had begun to sweat. No, Zindi, he said wiping his face, I can’t. I can’t. But when he looked at her there was a spark of hope in his panic-stricken eyes.

Zindi patted him again. You leave Jeevanbhai to me, she said. I’ll deal with him. Today if possible.

She smiled, struggling to hold herself in check. She could have shouted with joy. The answers were always so easy and so elusive.

The loudspeakers in the Souq sang out the muezzin’s midday izan. Forid Mian looked distractedly around for his prayer-rug and stone.

I’ll go now, Zindi said to him. But I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. And don’t worry.

It took Zindi a long time to sell the lemon-squeezers, and they fetched less than half the money she had bargained for. It was as good as throwing them away. But she had no choice — she had to hurry, for she could see that Boss was hungry, even though he wasn’t crying (he never cried).

Back in the house, with Boss fed and put to sleep, she had nothing to do but wait for Kulfi or Jeevanbhai. The house was empty except for her and Boss. It usually was now, because Abu Fahl and Chunni and Rakesh and all the rest of them spent all their time after work with Alu, at Hajj Fahmy’s house. What did they do there? Zindi almost didn’t want to know. Often they didn’t come back till late at night. They even ate their dinner there sometimes — Professor Samuel had made arrangements to transfer the expenses to Hajj Fahmy’s accounts. Only Kulfi came back to the house early, sometimes. She was a good girl, Kulfi. It’s all a lot of nothing, she told Zindi. Nothing happens there. They just sit there and laugh and talk and drink tea and listen to Hajj Fahmy and watch Alu weaving. Late into the night — talk, talk, talk and weave, weave, weave. So boring: what to do? I wouldn’t go at all except for the films. Now they say they’re going to get a video and have a new film every day.

Maybe Kulfi would be back early today. But early for Kulfi nowadays was usually quite late at night. She had found work as a cook for another Ghaziri family, and they ate late in the evenings, sitting on their terrace because of the heat. Perhaps Jeevanbhai would be back early. But if he’d bought a new bottle and gone to his room behind the Durban Tailoring House who could tell? Nothing to do but wait.

Wait. Zaghloul and Rakesh came to the house to bathe and change after work, but they went out again half an hour later. The house was very quiet. She went up to the roof, and she could see the lights in Hajj Fahmy’s house. She could almost hear the talk and the laughter. She wandered into the courtyard to feed the ducks and the geese. Her eyes fell on the door to Jeevanbhai’s room. She looked at the lock. It was made of brass and it looked very strong. She weighed it in her hand. It wasn’t as big or as heavy as it looked. Perhaps it wasn’t as strong, either. She gave it a small tug and something in it seemed to yield. She dropped the tray of corn she had been holding, and caught the lock in both hands. She pulled, but the lock held firm. She was suddenly very angry. It was not that she wanted anything from the room — she didn’t know what she would do if the lock opened — but why should a door be locked against her in her own house? She spread her legs, took a good grip on the lock and pulled with all her strength. The door creaked on its hinges, but the lock held.

There was a gentle cough behind her. She didn’t hear it, for the blood was pounding noisily in her head. She pulled again. There was a sound of wood cracking, near the hinges, but the lock still held. Then a hand snaked out and tapped her on the shoulder.

Zindi turned and saw Jeevanbhai. She looked at him and she looked at the lock in her hands and her anger vanished and her face began to drip with sweat. Jeevanbhai, she stammered, dropping her hands. I … I don’t know.

Jeevanbhai nodded politely; he was as sober as a rock in a desert. You should have asked me for the key, Zindi, he said.

No, no, Zindi said confusedly, it wasn’t that. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten to lock it.

Are you sure now? Jeevanbhai smiled, putting his key into the lock. Come in — look around. There’s nothing here.