Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

A girl peeped through the door and, seeing her, shut it again. She heard the pattering of feet and shrill cries inside the house: It’s Zindi, Zindi at-Tiffaha; she’s here.

She called out again: Ya Hajj, are you there? The door flew open and Hajj Fahmy stood in front of her, beaming: Come in, Zindi, come in, how are you, come in, come in, you’ve brought blessings, come in.

Zindi stepped reluctantly over the threshold and stood with her back to the door. Alu was working at the loom, at the other end of the courtyard. He looked up and smiled at her. She could see two little girls watching her from the shelter of a door.

Come in, Hajj Fahmy said. I’m glad you’ve come, Zindi. I hope you’ve come to join us at last. I knew you would sooner or later; I told the others so. Come and sit in the mandara and have some tea.

No, no, she said urgently, shaking her head. There’s no time.

No time? he smiled at her gently. No time for a cup of tea?

No, ya Hajj, there’s no time. Listen: Jeevanbhai’s been taken to gaol. I think he’s killed himself.

The Hajj started; his face clouded over. God have mercy on him, he said, laying his right hand on his heart.

But that’s not all, Zindi cried.

It’s very sad, Hajj Fahmy went on, talking more to himself than to her. But it was bound to happen. He got his fingers into too many things; that was always the trouble with him.

Zindi caught his arm. Listen, she said. Just listen to me now. There’s no time. He knew that all of you are going to the Star today. I told him so last night. I think that’s the reason why he was arrested. I don’t know exactly how, but I’m sure that’s the reason. He was planning something. He was arrested on his way to the Old Fort.

The Hajj stared at her in astonishment. Because of our trip to the Star? he said. What are you talking about? We’re going on a shopping trip and on the way we’re going to stop at the Star for a few minutes, to see if we can find Alu’s sewing machines. It’s allowed now; there’s no police cordon. Why should Jeevanbhai be taken to gaol for that? He had nothing to do with it.

I don’t know, she said, but I think that was why …

She saw him looking at her with a faintly ironic smile, and the things she had meant to say, all her arguments and phrases, became a confused jumble in her mind.

What gave you this idea, Zindi? he asked. Have you heard something definite?

No, Zindi stammered, searching her mind. But I think …

Hajj Fahmy frowned. Is this one of your little tricks, Zindi? he said softly.

Helplessly Zindi shook her head. She decided to make one last effort. Just believe me, she pleaded. Don’t go today. Take my word for it; I have nothing to gain. I came straight here, as soon as I heard about Jeevanbhai — to warn you. I had to. I didn’t think you would believe me, and I can see you don’t, but I had to try. That’s why I’ve come. You’ll be taking my whole house with you, and a woman can’t sit by and watch her children walking to their end. Don’t go, for God’s sake, don’t go. Don’t take the risk.

Hajj Fahmy scratched his cheek. But, Zindi, he said, we’re just going on a shopping trip. What could possibly happen? Why should the police be interested in a shopping trip? If they were, they’d be locking up the whole of al-Ghazira every day.

Trust me, ya Hajj, she said. Allahu yia’alam , this is no trick. Don’t go. Not just because of me or my people. Think of the Ras. If, just if, something does happen and the police are there and they catch you all together, it’ll be the end of the whole place. They won’t leave it standing — it’ll be finished.

Hajj Fahmy broke into a smile. Zindi, he said playfully, you’ve been having your bad dreams again.

She dropped her hands hopelessly. So you’ll go? she said.

He thumped her on the back and laughed: Come and have some tea. It won’t be as good as yours, but it won’t be bad.

Zindi turned away from him and went quickly across the courtyard to Alu. She reached up, caught his shuttle strings and said very rapidly in Hindi: Alu, don’t go. Don’t let them go today. You can stop them if you try. If anything happens, their blood will be on your hands.

Slowly Alu shook his head. There’s nothing I can do, he said. You know that. I don’t want to go myself. It’s not in my hands.

Hajj Fahmy came up and stood beside her. Stop running about, Zindi, he said. Come and have some tea and cool your head a little.

Zindi released Alu’s shuttle strings and turned slowly to Hajj Fahmy. She took his hand, and before he could pull it away she bent down and kissed it, formally.

God keep you, Hajj Fahmy, she said. You’re a good man.

And then she rushed away, for there was a lot to do and very little time to do it in: providentially she had heard somewhere that a sambuq called Zeynab was to sail for the Red Sea that very night.

When Abu Fahl stepped through the door, everyone in Hajj Fahmy’s courtyard could tell at once that he had a bottle hidden under his jallabeyya. His gleefully secretive grin made it plain; they didn’t even really need to look at the bulge under his arm to make sure.

Though it was only four o’clock, there were already a dozen men waiting in the strip of shade under the far wall of the courtyard. Alu was sitting at the loom at the other end, and Zaghloul was squatting beside him, asking questions and laughing at the answers, pretending incomprehension. Zaghloul saw Abu Fahl first, so he knew even before the others. He leapt to his feet and shouted delightedly: Bring it here, ya akhi , fast, before they get their hands on it. But there was a quick chorus from the other end, too: What have you got there, Abu Fahl? Show us.

Abu Fahl, swaggering across the courtyard, tried to wipe his grin away and assume innocence: Nothing, nothing at all — wala haja .

Come on, Abu Fahl, they sang out again. What is it? Potato stuff? Arrack? Whisky? Anything good?

Nothing, really, nothing at all, Abu Fahl said, demurely smoothing over the bulge under his arm. He glanced quickly around the courtyard and at the house: Where’s Hajj Fahmy?

Everyone laughed — sympathetically, for they would have been nervous, too, in his place. No drop of liquor had ever passed between Hajj Fahmy’s lips, and were he to hear that a bottle had entered his courtyard the man who had brought it would almost certainly be expelled from his house for all time. Don’t worry, someone said, it’s all right. He’s inside, sleeping. But hurry.

Abu Fahl, relieved, winked across the courtyard at Zaghloul and began to back away from the others. A couple of them jumped indignantly to their feet, crying: What’s the matter? Where’re you going? Do you think you’re going to drink it all by yourself?

Just one minute, Abu Fahl said, begging for patience with a gesture. I have to tell Zaghloul something. You’ll get some, don’t worry. There’s plenty.

He edged back to the loom, with the others still watching suspiciously. Then, very swiftly, he turned, and with his back to them he pulled a green bottle out through the neck of his jallabeyya and slipped it to Zaghloul. Zaghloul tore the cap off and took one long gagging swallow, and then another. The liquor was white and raw, distilled from potatoes, and it burnt like red coals in his throat. The others jumped to their feet, all together, shouting protests. Abu Fahl spun round to face them, pushing the sleeves of his jallabeyya threateningly back. They hesitated for a moment. The bottle passed into Alu’s hands and he gulped down a mouthful. Then Abu Fahl snatched it out of his hands and threw his head back, and the others surged across the courtyard.