Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

But by the time they managed to pull the bottle away from him it was a third empty and Abu Fahl was weak with laughter: Fooled you, gang of asses.

And then, with the bottle drained, lit, and thrown away, everyone, as always, was complaining; it wasn’t enough, what good was one bottle, and that, too, of this second-rate Goan stuff, what use? There was still an hour or more to kill before they left for the Star, and everyone was tired of talking about what they were going to buy afterwards, and they’d already told all the jokes about Japanese cassette recorders called No and Aiwah, so instead somebody got hold of one of Hajj Fahmy’s transistors and found a station playing Warda. But nobody was in a mood to sit and listen quietly, for the potato liquor, which always proved stronger than it seemed, was bubbling pleasantly in their stomachs. Abu Fahl began clapping first, very loudly, with his palms cupped. Soon Zaghloul joined in. Then suddenly everyone else was clapping, too, and some were stamping their feet as well, sending up clouds of dust. The women of Hajj Fahmy’s house, his wife, his daughters, his sons’ wives and their daughters, came pouring out into the courtyard and stood around the doors, laughing behind their hands and their scarves — all except the Hajj’s wife, who was too old to care whether she was seen laughing, black teeth and all, or not.

More people were arriving now, and they began clapping, too, and soon there was so much shouting and noise and laughter that no one could hear Warda any more. So Abu Fahl switched off the transistor and bellowed, Why’re we all sitting when we can dance? — and even before he’d finished people were jumping to their feet.

Everyone gathered in the centre of the courtyard and formed a ring. Someone handed Zaghloul a spoon and a disht, a huge circular steel wash-basin. He stood at the edge of the ring with the disht leaning against his knee and began to beat out a ringing, ear-splitting, one, two, three, four, five, six rhythm with the spoon.

Go on, Abu Fahl, the crowd shouted, go on — you’re in the middle.

Abu Fahl looked around him as though he was waking from a trance, and saw that it was he who the ring had formed around, that he was alone in its centre, and at once his grin was struck away by shock and he tried to break his way out, pleading: No, I can’t — you know I can’t. But the ring held firm and pushed him back into the centre: Dance now; let’s see what you can do. So Zaghloul took pity on him and began a quick, pugnacious chant, for he knew the best Abu Fahl could do when he tried to dance was mimic a fight. Khadnáhá min wasat ad-dár , he chanted; we took her from her father’s house. Wa abúhá gá’id za’alán , the crowd shouted back; while her father sat there bereft. Then Zaghloul again — Khadnáhá bis-saif il-mádi ; we took her with our sharpest sword. And the refrain, Wa abúhá makánsh rádi ; because her father wouldn’t consent.

But still, despite Zaghloul, it was pitiful, though funny, for no song could have made a dancer of Abu Fahl. He tried hard, but his shoulders were too broad, his legs too heavily muscular, his waist so knotted that when he moved his hips his whole torso twitched as though he were in a fever. The second chanted refrain dissolved into laughter, and Abu Fahl sank gratefully back into the ring, mopping his dripping purple face and smiling sheepishly.

Then it was Zaghloul’s turn. Zaghloul was a real dancer: slim and lithe as a cat. He undid the grey scarf that he usually kept knotted around his skullcap and tied it tightly around his waist. Someone was beating a difficult rhythm on the disht now, slowly to begin with. The first line of a song rang through the courtyard — dalla’ ya’árís, ya abu lása nylo — and everyone roared their approval, for what better song could there be to sing for Zaghloul with his youth and his fine, bright face than one which told of the joys of bridegrooms?

Zaghloul began slowly, by turning in the centre of the ring with short, quick steps, his arms raised high above his head. Then gradually the pace of the beat increased, and in perfect time Zaghloul’s hips began to move with it. The crowd closed in intently around him, the shuffling of so many feet raising a cloud of dust which hung above the ring, encircling him in a golden halo. The claps came in sharp, quick bursts now, as the whole ring threw itself into his dance. In response, the jerking, twitching movement of Zaghloul’s hips quickened, too, and in exact counterpoint, as his hips moved faster and faster, the upper part of his body became more and more rigid and still, the tense fixity of his torso framing the driving energy of his waist. The disht was ringing deafeningly now, the beats spinning out in a throbbing, vibrant tattoo. And Zaghloul danced still faster, his face perfectly, stonily grave, his arms flexed above him, his torso motionless, his waist pulsating, hammering, in a movement both absolutely erotic and absolutely abstract, both love-making and geometry; faster still, the claps driving him on, and still faster, until with a final explosive ring of the disht the chant died and he collapsed laughing on the ground.

Somewhere the women were ululating as though it were a real wedding building towards its climax.

Then someone spotted Rakesh, sitting by himself in a corner of the courtyard, and a shout went up — Rakesh now! — and he was hauled towards the ring, screaming protests. But Abu Fahl saw that he was close to tears because his carefully ironed terry-cotton trousers were being dragged through the dust, so he wrenched him free and sent him back to his corner with a slap on the back. Instead Hajj Fahmy’s wife pushed her way into the ring and, without feigning a modesty she was too old to feel, she did an odd little dance mimicking Zaghloul. She ended by tweaking his cheeks and kissing her fingers. In the midst of the laughter and the cheers a thought struck Abu Fahl, and he exclaimed: Where’s Isma’il? He’s the one who loves to dance!

None of the men around him had seen Isma’il, so he asked one of Hajj Fahmy’s grand-daughters: Hey, you, girl, where’s your uncle Isma’il?

Covering her face shyly with her sleeve, the girl murmured: He’s inside.

Inside? Why?

He’s sitting on his bed. He won’t get off.

In bed! Abu Fahl exclaimed in surprise. Ya nahar abyad! Why in bed?

He’s like that sometimes, the girl shrugged and turned away, embarrassed for her uncle.

Abu Fahl ran into the house, and found Isma’il sitting perched on a high bed in his mother’s room. Hajj Fahmy was sitting at the other end of the bed. They were watching a wrestling match on television.

What’s the matter, ya Isma’il? Abu Fahl cried in surprise, putting out his hand. What’re you doing sitting here, when we’re all outside?

Smiling cheerfully, Isma’il shook his hand without stirring from the bed. I’m watching television, he said.

Tell Isma’il to come out, we’re all waiting for him, Abu Fahl said, extending his hand to Hajj Fahmy. And what about you, ya Hajj? Why haven’t you come out yet?

Hajj Fahmy smiled: There’s too much noise outside, and Isma’il doesn’t want to go. I’ll come a little later. His eyes narrowed and he sniffed suspiciously: What have you been drinking?

Abu Fahl leapt back. Nothing, nothing at all, he said, trying to smile.

I hope so, said Hajj Fahmy, turning grimly back to the television set.

Come on, Isma’il, Abu Fahl exhorted. You can’t sit here all day. Come out. Aren’t you coming to the Star with us?

No. Isma’il shook his head. I can’t.

Allah! Why not?

The germs are out today. They’re all around the bed. I can’t get off.

Abu Fahl’s mouth fell open: Germs around the bed!