Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

But their laughter returned to them, echoing hollowly in that bowl of silence.

They spun around then, appealing to everyone. This is crazy, they said. What’ll you get out of watching us bathe? We’ll give you some money instead. It’s true, we shouldn’t have tried to run down Abu Fahl. But it’s a simple thing and easily settled. How much do you want? Just tell us. How much?

No one took their eyes off them, and no one answered. Now they were running from one end of the courtyard to the other, like insects in a matchbox, clutching at people’s hands, Abu Fahl’s hands, begging, pleading.

Nobody moved, no one spoke.

Trapped in that storm of silence, they circled slowly back to the centre, looking around the courtyard like caged foxes. Slowly, as they began to understand the depths of their humiliation, the disbelief and mockery on their faces faded into terror. Weighed down by the silence they sank to their knees. Then suddenly they lifted up their buckets and drenched each other in antiseptic.

And at that moment the young bird-lover jerked himself free, and fought his way through the crowd. Once he was out of the lane, he began to run. He lost his way among the shacks but he kept on running, in circles, until somehow he reached the embankment. He stopped there to get his breath back, but also because he realized at last that he was lost.

Why did he run? Jeevanbhai asked incredulously. His eyes were glazed now and he was slumped across his paper-littered desk, with a glass clutched in one hand.

Why did he run? Was he scared?

No, said Zindi, tossing off another shot of whisky. He wasn’t scared exactly. He was shocked: it was as though the world had suddenly started moving backwards.

What did you do then?

Zindi could feel herself swaying on the chair, and she gripped the edge of her desk to hold herself steady. I found him near the embankment, she said. And I walked with him till we found a taxi. And all the way, like a child in search of a secret, he bombarded me with questions about birds.

Birds! Jeevanbhai snorted, curling his lip. That’s all they’re good for: birds, and their promotions and their postings. It’s no use expecting anything from them. A man has to do what he can for himself.

So, Zindi said, holding out her empty glass, I’ll be back at eight-thirty tomorrow. And you’d better have the papers ready, Jeevanbhai.

Wait, Jeevanbhai cried, with drunken petulance. That’s not all. You have to tell me more. What happens now?

What do you mean? said Zindi. I’ll come at eight-thirty, then we’ll sign the documents, and after that I’ll start work. And tell me: have you told Forid Mian yet?

No, no, I didn’t mean that. Jeevanbhai waved an impatient hand. I meant, what are they going to do next?

Zindi repeated with slow menace: Have you told Forid Mian yet? When are you going to tell him?

I’ll tell him tomorrow, don’t worry. There’s nothing to worry about. Now tell me: what are they going to do next?

Zindi poured a finger of whisky into her glass and sat back. Nothing much, she said. They were so happy with what they did to the mugaddams they’ve decided to celebrate. They’re all going to the Star tomorrow evening — half the Ras.

The room was suddenly swimming before Jeevanbhai’s eyes. He shook his head fiercely, in an effort to clear it. They’re going to the Star? he asked hoarsely.

Yes, said Zindi. They’re all going to the Star tomorrow. You know, they lifted the police cordon last week, so there’s nothing to stop them going now. They’re going to look at the room Alu was buried in. If they find the two sewing machines that saved him, they’re going to bring them out and give them to him as a gift. And the Mawali women are going to take fruit and bread and kahk biscuits to distribute at their sheikh’s grave, if they can find it in that mess. After that they’re all going on a shopping spree in Hurreyya Avenue — in all the foreign shops. Professor Samuel is going to take a briefcase full of money.

Jeevanbhai rose slowly from his chair, gripping the desk tightly. He stood still for a moment, testing his legs. Then he staggered over to Zindi’s chair and leant against her back.

I went to the Star once, he said thickly, clutching her shoulders. Only the Star wasn’t there then and I had to go by boat. Do you remember, Zindi?

I remember, Zindi said grimly, and brushed his hands away. They came back again, feeling their way unsteadily over her shoulders and neck.

Do you remember? Do you remember how I arrived in your house? Jabal and the Pathans were behind us. Abusa managed to get us on to a horse, and we raced away. Only, I fell off on the dirt path, where the embankment is now. But somehow I crawled into your house. Do you remember?

He bent down and kissed her on the top of her head, where her hair was thinnest. She jabbed her elbow angrily into his stomach. He lurched backwards and then fell to his knees beside her, hugging her arm.

Do you remember how you looked after me, Zindi? Do you remember that one time when you came to me at night and found me writhing in pain?

Zindi pushed him back: Stop this nonsense.

There were tears in his eyes now, and his face crumpled like wet paper. He caught her hand and lifted it to his cheek.

We lost that battle, Zindi, he said, and that war, too. Why did we lose?

Zindi snatched her hand away. Jeevanbhai, she snapped, be a grown man, in God’s name.

Jeevanbhai brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. Then he put his arm around her waist as far as it would reach, and sank his head into her lap.

Do you think I’d win now, Zindi, he said, if I tried?

Zindi did not answer and she made no effort to push his head away. He looked up at her. He said: Do you think I might win, once?

Zindi shook her head. Stop this now, Jeevanbhai, she said wearily. There’s nothing to win any longer.

Jeevanbhai reached up and pulled her head down. Zindi, he whispered into her ear, once more. Please. Just one more time, like the last one.

Zindi snapped her head back, startled. But where? she cried.

Jeevanbhai waved a hand at the records of his planned matings. I could spread them out on the floor, he said eagerly.

Zindi laughed: We’re too old, Jeevanbhai.

Zindi, he pleaded, just one more time.

She looked at him and saw a spark of hope glinting behind the fog of years of defeat and, despite herself, she drew his face towards her and kissed him gently on his moist forehead. Then she pushed him away: It’s too late now, Jeevanbhai.

He caught her hand and sat back on his haunches. As you like, Zindi, he said. But can I tell you something? I can tell you now because we’re both drunk and tomorrow’s so close. In my own way I’ve always loved you — as much as I can love, and with as much as I had to spare from my wife.

Zindi ran her hand over his papery cheek. No, Jeevanbhai, she said sadly. You’re like all men; what you loved was the reflection you saw of yourself in my eyes.

She rose from her chair and banged her glass on the desk. I have to go now, she said. Boss has to go to sleep; it’s very late.

Jeevanbhai darted to one corner of the room and began to rummage around in a stack of files. Wait, he called out after her. I’ve got another new bottle somewhere here.

Zindi went into the shop and pulled the collapsible gate open. The passageway was pitch dark. She lifted Boss into her arms and pressed him to her breasts.

Listen, she shouted into the inner room, I’ll be back tomorrow at eight-thirty. You’d better have the papers ready.

There was no answer. Growling to herself, she left the shop and walked down the passageway, trying to keep her steps even.

Zindi! a shout echoed down the passageway. She turned, pulled her torch out, and shone it towards the shop. Jeevanbhai was leaning against the collapsible gate, holding a new bottle of whisky in one hand. She turned back and hurried away towards the Bab al-Asli.