Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

There was no shortage of anything, and that evening Romy’s stock of eggs began to smell.

Next day, Romy dropped his prices. Still nobody came. That night almost the whole of the Ras gathered around Hajj Fahmy’s house and till late in the night they talked about the terrible dirt that shops deal out.

Next morning Romy began to beg people to go in. He needed money now. But nobody even passed by his shop any longer; they skirted fearfully around it as though it were a leper’s lair. They were afraid; afraid of the dirt and the germs. Germs! In Romy Abu Tolba the Fayyumi’s shop, where everyone had bought everything for God knows how many years!

At the end of the day Romy knew he was beaten. What’s the use of a shop without customers? He went to Hajj Fahmy that evening and said: Do what you like with my shop.

They say Hajj Fahmy kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him like a brother.

The day after that they went to the shop and washed every inch of it with carbolic acid. They washed the shelves, the floor, the walls, the counter, even the lane outside. They took away Romy’s old iron cash-box, and in its place they put their files and account-books.

That night on the beach they burnt the cash-box and danced around it.

Now everything in the shop is given away and the price is marked down in the files against people’s names. There aren’t any profits any more. Romy’s just a clerk now, in his own shop. He spends the day noting down who buys what in the account-books. They pay him a wage. It’s not a bad wage, but you can already see death weighing down his eyelids. Who wants to be a paid clerk in his own shop?

That was just the beginning. After that the flood of carbolic acid started. Every day they send out groups with buckets of carbolic. They wander all over the Ras, washing out lanes and houses as they please. They came to this house, too, but the door was barred, and Abu Fahl, for some reason of his own, led them away. But they’ll be back, and who’ll stop them the next time? They’ll come again and again and again, until they get in. And what then? Who can live with the stench of that stuff?

Next, they say, they’re going to put a stop to the dirtiest of the dirty — the mugaddams, the labour contractors. Soon, they say, no one in the Ras will ever work for a mugaddam again. And after that? After that — no mistake about it — they’ll want the houses; houses which have been held together for years with sweat and love. They’ll want them, too.

Everyone’s with them now. They’ve got so much money, it’s unbelievable, but at the same time they say there’s not a note or a coin left anywhere in the Ras. It’s all in their account-books and files. Every day every person who works outside takes money for the day in an envelope, and at the end of the day they burn the envelopes. Every week they bring their pay to the Professor in envelopes (he’s got a kind of office now, in a shack near Hajj Fahmy’s house). He writes it all down in his books and puts it in the bank. Then, at the end of every week, he goes to the post office and sends money to all the addresses in his files. They say the shacks in the Ras are now full of people who’re growing as rich as kings back home in their villages. They’re sending back three, four, five times more money than they used to before, because they don’t have to spend any of it here, as they used to. But there’s so many of them, and there’s so much money in those books, that they still have money to burn. They began by showing films on the beach every second day. Now it’s videos and a new film every day. Then they’re going to hire buses to take them on holidays to the hot springs. They’re not going to go home on ordinary planes any more. They’re going to charter whole planes, and everyone who’s going to Egypt or India or wherever will go together. They’ll save half the money, they say.

And now it’s not just the Ras any more. People are getting to hear of it outside, and they’re pouring in. Last week the Baluchis, who used to sweep the streets of the New Town during the day and sleep in them at night, started arriving and they’ve all been given places to stay.

It’s getting worse and worse every day. Now no one will talk to me any more or let me into their houses or their shacks, because I’m not fool enough to wear their duster on my arm. They say I bring in germs. Think of it! Zindi at-Tiffaha, without whose consent no shack could be built in the Ras once upon a time, brings in germs now!

Whatever happens, it’s the end for me: either they’ll get the house or the police will. It’s just a matter of time now before the police and the Amirs get to hear of it. No one’s gone to them yet, because that’s the one thing no one in the Ras ever does. But soon enough someone or other will go, and then it’ll be the end of the Ras, the end of our houses, the end of our peace, the end of our luck and our good times.

And where shall I go then?

Jeevanbhai Patel was staring at the floor, his hands clasped between his knees. It was a long time before he spoke. He said: Zindi, you don’t have to go very far. What about the shop?

Zindi, still hiccuping with sobs, stopped wiping her face: What shop?

My shop. The Durban Tailoring House. Don’t you want it?

Zindi looked him over suspiciously: Yes. Why?

Jeevanbhai smiled and patted her on the shoulder. Tell me, Zindi, he said, why do you want that shop so much?

Why do I want it so much? Can’t you see why I want it so much? If I had it, I’d be able to get away from here before the end comes. And who knows? God willing, I might be able to take a few of them with me. They might listen to me if I had something to offer, some alternative. They won’t listen to me now, but with that shop who knows? And at least, if I do get it, when the end comes a couple of them will have somewhere to hide.

Jeevanbhai ran his tongue over his teeth. Zindi, he said, I told you before, but you weren’t listening. You can have the shop.

Zindi rose from the bed and went to the door. All right, Jeevanbhai, she said briskly, tell me what you’ve got in your mind or I’m going. I know you’re not a man who gives away shops for love and sweet words. So just tell me the truth; I’m not a child.

No, Jeevanbhai said quietly, you’re right; I’m not the kind of man who gives away a shop for nothing. But I’m not going to give it away for nothing. You’ll have to pay me half what it would cost on the open market. I know you’ve got enough money hidden away somewhere. We can talk about the price later. The other half will be my share. We can divide the profits. The place needs a change anyway; it never brings luck if it stays the same for too long. I’ve been thinking of it myself.

Watching him closely, Zindi said: But that’s not all, is it?

Jeevanbhai smiled. No, Zindi, he said, it’s true. That’s not all. I want something from you, too. But it’s a small thing, and it’s not very important.

Tell me quickly and no more talk. You know you can have what I’ve got to give, but that you don’t want. What do you want?

She leant forward and peered at him. Not Kulfi? she gasped in surprise. No, not her?

Jeevanbhai burst into laughter: An old whore’s like an old zip — stuck. Can’t you ever think of anything else? No, I don’t want her or anything like that. You can still marry her off to Forid Mian if you like — if he has the strength to sign the khitba. No, what I want is a very small thing. I just want you to tell me what’s happening here, now and then. You know I don’t get to hear as much now as I used to and, as you said yourself, nowadays one can’t afford to be behind the news. And I may want you to do a couple of things for me sometimes.