Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

What things?

Small things. For example, I’ve got a couple of friends — Indians, nice people. One of them’s heard about Alu and wants to meet him. Maybe you could take him tomorrow?

Zindi leant her head against the door and thought hard for a while. Then, with a quick, regretful shake of her head, she said: Police, I suppose? No, I can’t. You know that’s one thing I couldn’t do to them. Whatever happens in the future, in the past they all ate my bread and salt. They’ve become part of my flesh. You shouldn’t have said that, Jeevanbhai. You know I can’t do it.

Zindi, Zindi, don’t be a fool. Do you think I’d ask if they were police? Don’t I know you well enough? They’re not — they’re just ordinary people who I met once in India. They’re just ordinary people. You’ll know as soon as you see this man. He’s a boy really, just like Alu. He must be in his twenties. He always looks surprised, like a schoolboy. One of his eyebrows is higher than the other. He’s just heard a few things and he’s curious, like anyone else. Like you or me. That’s all. Believe me.

Zindi hesitated for an instant, and then she shook her head. No, she said, you know I can’t do it.

So what about the shop, then?

Zindi turned, swinging her huge bulk sharply on her heel, and took the latch off its hook.

Jeevanbhai spoke rapidly, at her back: Listen, Zindi. God didn’t mean you to be a fool. Listen to me. I’ll talk to my friend and I’ll tell him to wait for you, in the road opposite my office, near the harbour. Don’t come into the office. Bring him straight here and take him to Hajj Fahmy’s house. Wear a duster if you have to, for once. Give him one, too, if they won’t let you in otherwise. Let him talk to Alu if he wants. He may even want to take a few pictures. Afterwards take him out of the Ras, put him into a taxi and send him home. But I want you to tell me what he does and what he says. So come to the Souq the next day — day after tomorrow. Come to the Durban Tailoring House at nine. I’ll be there. We can talk safely there. And the very next morning you can start setting up the shop. Do you hear me? Zindi?

Zindi threw the door open and hurried across the courtyard. It was time to feed Boss again.

Zindi knew that today she would have to walk all the way to the Souq. Very few share-taxis or buses passed by the Ras after dark, and those that did never stopped.

She left her house at a quarter past eight, for she knew it would take her three-quarters of an hour, probably more, with Boss in her arms. At least there weren’t any lemon-squeezers to carry. She remembered at the last minute to take her torch; it was very dark in the Ras at night, and even someone who knew its lanes like the lines on her own hands, as she did, stood in danger of tripping over a sleeping dog or stumbling into some newly sprouted shack. As an afterthought she decided to take a stick as well — many of the stray dogs in the Ras were known to turn vicious at night.

It took her longer than she had expected to reach the Maidan al-Jami‘i. She had to stop twice on the way to rest: Boss was growing heavier every day. By the time she reached the Souq it was almost nine-thirty. Most of the jewellery- and electronics-shops had already shut down, but a few of the cloth-shops were still open. She didn’t expect to see a light in the Durban Tailoring House. She knew Jeevanbhai would be in the small room behind the shop. Drinking, probably. He could wait: it would do him good; make him drunker. Maybe he’d drink himself to death.

Zindi wandered into one of the cloth-shops and looked it over. It took her no more than a glance to see that it was all wrong — some shelves were too crowded, some too bare, and there weren’t enough sample leaflets on the counter. She left it, nodding to herself. She knew she could do better.

The Durban Tailoring House was dark, as she had expected; but she could see a sliver of light under the door to the room at the back. She rattled the shop’s heavily padlocked steel collapsible gates. The door at the back opened promptly, and she saw Jeevanbhai silhouetted against a rectangle of dim light. He stood there for a moment, fumbling for his keys, his shoulders slightly stooped, his hair neatly combed as always, his teeth an iridescent ruby streak in the darkness. As she watched him unlocking the gate, the helpless, unnameable rage that had kept her awake for two nights suddenly poured into her head and began to throb in her temples.

’Aish Halak ya Zindi? he said, smiling politely, as he pushed the gate back along its rails.

Zindi crashed past him into the shop, knocking him aside with her shoulder. Why is it so dark here? she snapped. Spinning around, she slammed the edge of her palm on the light switches. Two neon lights flickered on, filling the shop with their silvery glare.

Zindi, what’re you doing? Jeevanbhai protested, sheltering his eyes and groping for the switches.

Zindi blocked his way with an outstretched arm. What’s the matter? she said. Why d’you always hide from the light like a cockroach?

She reached over the counter to the shelves and yanked out a roll of cloth. With jerks of her hand she spread several layers of the cloth over the counter. Then, very gently, she laid Boss on the improvised cot.

Yalla , go on, ya Boss, she whispered loudly. Piss, shit, do what you like. It’s our cloth now — yours and mine. We’re buying it tomorrow.

Zindi, Zindi, Jeevanbhai muttered in mild protest. Can’t you do all that later? I’ve been waiting for you. Come into the other room, and tell me …

Listen, Zindi snarled, spraying his face with spittle. I did what you said, for my reasons. Mine , not yours. I’m not your bought slave like Forid Mian. So don’t give me any orders. I’ll do what I want, and I’ll tell you when I want.

She reached into a pocket in the waist of her fustan and pulled out a tape measure. Laying one end of it at the corner of the shop, beside the collapsible gate, she measured along the wall to the far corner. Then she started at another corner and measured the breadth of the shop.

Just four metres by three metres, she said to Jeevanbhai. Very small; much smaller than it looks.

It’s big enough, Jeevanbhai said.

Have you got the documents ready?

In good time, Zindi, he answered guardedly. In good time.

‘Good time’ means tomorrow morning, as you said that day. You’ll remember that, if you want to keep all your bones together.

Zindi lifted Boss, together with his makeshift cot, off the counter and put him on the floor, in a corner. Then she put her hands and shoulders to the counter and pushed with all her strength. It scratched out a tooth-jarring squeak as it moved across the floor.

Zindi, Jeevanbhai shouted over the noise, what’re you doing?

Zindi dusted her hands and leant back to look at the counter. It was now parallel to the far wall. It looks better this way, she said. And it’s more convenient. Tomorrow I’ll get it painted nicely.

The counter had left behind a long, rectangular plinth of dust near the shelves. Zindi picked a dead scorpion out of the dust and threw it out through the bars of the collapsible gate. Look at this filth! she said. I’ll have to get it properly cleaned tomorrow.

All right, she said briskly, looking round the shop. Now I’ll do the shelves.

Zindi, Jeevanbhai said, can’t you do that tomorrow? Come inside now and tell me what happened.

Zindi smiled grimly at the unfamiliar sight of Jeevanbhai pleading. First, she said, tell me, what time shall I come tomorrow?

Any time.

No, I want a definite time. I’ll come in the morning, at eight-thirty, before the other shops open. I want to take the signboard down and shut the place up, while I rearrange it and get new stock and all that.