Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Squatting in the courtyard, listening to the hissing of the geese, Zindi suddenly remembered that other day, so many long months ago, when someone else had waited for Kulfi at dawn, and she smiled to herself. Mast Ram was beaten now, at last. She had beaten him. With the shop in her hands, she would wean Rakesh away first, with clothes perhaps. Then Zaghloul. Kulfi was with her anyway, only too timid to say so. Abu Fahl would follow, and then they’d all come, back to the shelter of her house. All of them, hanging their heads and pleading …

Kulfi came out soon, yawning. Zindi gestured quickly to her to be quiet and caught her arm. Don’t go anywhere today, she whispered into her ear. Wait for me in the house. I’ll need you later today — there’ll be work to do. I can’t talk now, but I’ll tell you about it later. Boss is in the other room. Look after him. Don’t go anywhere; don’t move. Stay here and wait for me.

But where are you going at this time of the morning? Kulfi asked in surprise.

To the Souq, Zindi hissed, to Jeevanbhai’s shop.

Now? Kulfi said doubtfully. She turned and looked at Jeevanbhai’s door. A lock hung upon the latch. But, she cried, he’s not here. Where is he?

Zindi pinched her arm and Kulfi squealed. Be quiet, Zindi snapped. What does it matter? You know he often passes out in his sleep when he’s been drinking. He’s there, in his shop, waiting for me. Now, remember: don’t go anywhere — just wait for me.

With a last warning tap on Kulfi’s arm, Zindi turned and surged out of the house.

It was not yet seven when she reached the Maidan al-Jami‘i, and the shops and cafés in the square were all shut. A man was washing the pavement outside the mosque, singing to himself, and in the square there were a couple of figures stretched out on the stone benches. Zindi hurried past them, straight to the Bab al-Asli. She stopped there for a moment, and for the first time that morning a doubt struck her. Would he be waiting after all? She shook her head and slipped quickly through the Bab al-Asli into the enveloping blackness beyond.

She had to feel her way along slowly at first, half-blinded by the sudden darkness. She tried to hurry and stumbled. Muttering to herself, she slowed down again, though impatience and worry were clawing at her scalp now.

She turned into the first lane and a huge sigh of relief gushed out of her lungs. The steel collapsible gates of the Durban Tailoring House were drawn and its neon lights were glowing like beacons in the gloom of the passageway. She stopped and carefully patted the wads of notes around her neck and waist. Then she looked up again, and at exactly that moment a head appeared in the shop’s doorway, blew its nose, and vanished into the shop.

It wasn’t Jeevanbhai. Even in that brief glimpse she had seen, quite clearly, a peaked cap and the neck of a black uniform.

Her mouth went dry and she had to lean her shaking body against the wall of the corridor. After a while, when her knees were steady again, she pressed herself against the shop-fronts and inched forward, towards the Durban Tailoring House, grateful for the shadowy blackness of her fustan.

An age seemed to pass before she was halfway down the corridor. The head didn’t appear again, but she could hear muffled voices now. They grew louder as she worked her way forward, but she could see nothing except the shop’s window. When she was almost opposite the Durban Tailoring House, she dropped to her knees and half-crawled along the corridor till she could see inside. Three black-uniformed men were lounging on stools, laughing and talking good-humouredly. Files and papers lay piled up in heaps all over the floor of the shop. Zindi crouched back against the billboards of the travel agency behind her, shivering. They had only to turn their heads to see her.

One of the men called out towards the room at the back: Where’s the tea gone, ya ’ammi ? A moment later the door of the back room opened and Forid Mian came out, nursing a kettle in his hands. He put it on the counter, raised his head and looked straight across the corridor into Zindi’s eyes.

For a long moment they stared at each other. Then Zindi pulled her dress up to her knees and lurched down the passageway as fast as she could.

Zindi! Forid Mian’s voice echoed after her. She stumbled fiercely on, without looking back. Faintly, through the convulsive wheezing of her own breath, she heard other footsteps ringing through the corridor, and Forid Mian again, shouting shrilly: Zindi! Stop! Why’re you running?

She pressed a hand on the wads of money around her neck and pulled herself round the corner. A blinding patch of daylight was shining in through the Bab al-Asli. Gulping in a huge breath, she flung herself at it. And when she was no more than a yard from the daylight Forid Mian’s hands closed on her elbow and drew her to a halt. She struggled feebly but her strength was gone.

She collapsed almost gratefully on the floor, shuddering and swallowing air.

Why were you running, Zindi? Forid Mian panted. What was the need?

Zindi cast a frightened glance past him into the passageway.

Why’re you afraid? Forid Mian said aggrievedly. They aren’t coming. They don’t care about you; they have nothing to do with you. They’ve only come to take away his papers.

What papers? Zindi scoured his face with her eyes. Why?

Forid Mian threw a quick glance over his shoulder and fell to his knees beside her. Don’t you know? he confided, his eyes alight. They caught Jeevanbhai last night and put him in gaol. He died this morning.

Zindi gazed at him, trembling. He stroked his beard and pressed his thin, cracked lips together. His mouth twitched, his eyes flickered, and then suddenly his face flowered into a wide, boyish smile.

Zindi! he cried, shaking her shoulders. I did it. I did it at last. I saw him going out and I knew he was going to the Old Fort, so I rang them up just like they’d told me to, and I told them, I told them, and they caught him and put him in a black car, handcuffs and all, and took him straight off to the big gaol and locked him up. Locked him up. That’s where he died — killed himself.

He dropped his hands and stared at the floor. He’s dead, he whispered incredulously; he’s dead at last. And now the shop’s mine. They’re going to give it to me.

Then he flung his arms around her and hugged her, whimpering with joy and disbelief. He was a bad man, he said. He was a bad, wicked man.

Zindi pushed him away and patted her dress to make sure her wads of notes were undisturbed. He was a bad man, Forid Mian whispered again, shaking his head. A bad, bad man.

He was a better man than you’ll ever be, Forid Mian, Zindi said. Despite everything. A thousand times better. At least, while he lived, he was alive.

Forid Mian laughed. You didn’t know him, Zindi, he said. I tell you, he was a bad man.

Zindi dusted her dress and turned to go. Forid Mian reached out and caught her arm. Wait, Zindi, he said. Don’t be in a hurry.

Zindi stopped. He dropped his eyes and shot her a shy, upwards glance. Maybe I’ll feel lonely now, Zindi, he said. Maybe I should have someone to look after me, as you were saying that day. I can afford it, now that I’ve got the shop.

He looked away modestly and shuffled his feet. The stringy white beard was suddenly incongruous on his glowing face; he looked twenty years younger. Tell me, Zindi, he said, did you talk to Kulfi?

Zindi tried to speak and could find no words. She pushed him aside and looked down the murky passageway into the heart of the Souq. Then her eyes filled with tears and she turned abruptly and hurried out through the Bab al-Asli.

Zindi took a taxi from the Maidan and so reached Hajj Fahmy’s house in half an hour. When she arrived there she stood outside the walls of the courtyard and shouted in: Are you there, ya Hajj Fahmy? Come out.