Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

She stopped, for Kulfi was brushing her hands across her eyes, and it didn’t seem as though she had understood much. I do a bit of gynae, too, she added quickly, though it’s not on the contract.

But that didn’t appear to make much of an impression, either, so then she said simply: You’re very, very welcome.

Next moment Zindi was upon her, her heavy-jowled face blazing hope. You’re a doctor? she cried in her guttural Hindi. A real doctor? God be praised.

She thrust Boss into Mrs Verma’s arms. What’s happened to him, Doctor? she said, her voice honed sharp by days of unvoiced worry. What’s happened to him, Doctor? Tell me what’s happened to him.

Mrs Verma felt his forehead with the back of her hand. I’m not in paediatrics, she said apologetically, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. Perhaps he has a little fever. Has he been like this for long?

Ten days, Doctor, Zindi said. Ten whole days.

Ten days! Mrs Verma was shocked. She turned to Kulfi: Why haven’t you taken him to a doctor before this?

There wasn’t any time, Doctor, Zindi cried, the words pouring out of her in a wailing, unthinking wave. There just wasn’t any time. First, we were on the ship and we couldn’t take him to the doctor there, though I did give him a few tablets. Then we had to get off at Tunis. I thought we’d find a doctor there, and actually we were on our way but then suddenly something happened and we had to rush off and that made him worse. Then in Kairouan I thought I’d take him, but we had to rush off again, and after that it was just a mess and all we could think of was how to get to the border …

Kulfi managed to stop her by leaning sideways and giving her elbow a discreet jog. It’s all right now, she said, smiling brightly at Mrs Verma. God has brought us to a doctor.

Mrs Verma ignored her. To me, she said, frowning, it sounds rather as if you were running away from something.

For an unbearably long moment she examined their faces.

Zindi held her breath: the doctor looked as though she had read something on their faces. How? Had the Bird-man’s talons marked them with the scars of the hunted?

Then Mrs Verma shrugged and said briskly: Anyway, he’ll be all right; I don’t think it’s anything serious. Probably just needs a little rest and a tonic.

Yes, Doctor, Zindi said eagerly, that’s what I thought — just a little rest.

You can come and stay with us, of course, Mrs Verma said to Kulfi, ignoring Zindi. We have plenty of room — though it may be a little crowded now, with so many people. But you won’t have any trouble. We could go right now, but we’d better not carry your little boy all the way in the heat. I’ll ask Driss to let you rest inside the café. Then I’ll go on home and see if we can get the hospital’s land-rover to fetch you.

She made her way through the little crowd that had gathered around them into the café and talked urgently to the proprietor in her own argot of French and Arabic. When they followed her in, she smiled: It’s done. The proprietor found them a table next to a fan and went off to fetch a mattress for Boss.

I’d better go now, Mrs Verma said. Would you like to come with me Mrs … Mrs …?

Bose. Mrs Bose.

Oh! exclaimed Mrs Verma in surprise. You’re Bengali, too, then? You speak Hindi very well.

Kulfi let out a trill of high laughter. He is, she said. I’m from … from Jamshedpur. Then she paused, puzzled: What do you mean — Bengali, too ?

Oh, we have another visitor in our house, Mrs Verma said, but never mind that. She turned to Alu: So you’re Bengali?

He nodded.

I see, she said. Well, you might be able to help me a little.

How? said Alu nervously.

I’ll explain later, she said. It’s a small thing, a translation. A thought struck her, and she clutched at Kulfi’s hand. I hope you can stay for a while? she asked anxiously. You’re not in a hurry or anything, are you? You must stay at least a week. At the very least. I won’t let you go before that.

Kulfi, surprised, said: Yes, we can stay a week, I’m sure.

Good, Mrs Verma said, patting her hand. Very good. She thought of what Dr Mishra would say when he heard and suddenly she was smiling radiantly, tasting for the first time the full flavour of the victory which now seemed within her grasp.

So, sighed Zindi, it looks as though we’re safe from the Bird-man at last.

There’s only one way to be sure of that, said Alu.

What?

Don’t ever say ‘We’re going west’ again.

As quick as she could Zindi slapped her hand over his mouth. But it was already too late. You’ve said it, it’s done now, she whispered, trembling, her eyes searching the corners and shadows of the café. They were empty to all appearances, but that meant nothing. It’s done now, she whispered again. Now it’s just a matter of time.

It was nothing less than a certainty; like a sorcerer’s incantation those words could conjure a presence out of emptiness.

When she first said it she could not have imagined that words could leave a trail like an animal’s spoor. Even if she had, there was nothing else she could have said then; there was no other direction they could have taken. For that was the day they reached her village and her brothers’ wives barred their doors on her and shrieked till the roof of the very house she had built for them shook: The whore’s back from al-Ghazira — Fatheyya, who’s given herself some fancy whoring name. She’s come to take our daughters for her brothel.

It was more a hamlet than a village — a little ’izba, near Damanhour, perched on the casuarina-lined banks of a canal — a few mud-walled dwellings and one big house: the house that Zindi’s brothers had built with her Ghaziri dirhams. The way there was all dust and drying cotton fields and barking dogs, but when they arrived they were cheering — all five of them, Zindi, Abu Fahl, Zaghloul, Kulfi and Alu — screaming like children waiting at a circus. For this was no ordinary hamlet: it was the dream which had kept them alive while they dragged themselves across oceans, seas and half of Egypt; it was a promise of deliverance, of refuge, of a new life. They were cheering so loud when they drew up in their hired pick-up truck that it was a long while before they noticed the eerily empty lanes, the barred doors and the screeching chorus of voices.

When she heard those voices at last, Zindi looked around her at the mud walls of the lane, glowing treacherously in the morning sun, and she knew that if she were to live in that narrow pathway, jostled with hate on every side, she would not live to see another year.

It was all over then.

But she had a revenge of sorts. Abu Fahl battered down the door and they loaded their truck with furniture, jewellery, bales of newly harvested cotton — every movable object of value they could find. But those were paltry things; they could make no difference to a woman who had lost her nephews, nieces, land, even the magic of the name she had chosen for herself (who knew from where?). She was a different Zindi now, stripped, revealed as nothing but Fatheyya, plain old Fatheyya, Fatheyya Umm -nobody, mother of nothing, poor, simple, barren Fatheyya who was once abandoned in Alexandria by a child-hungry husband. Nothing she took with her could shut her ears to the cries of her brothers’ wives, the roar which shook the dead cotton bushes in the fields and creaked in the canals with the kababis: Fatheyya the whore is gone at last, shukr Illah !

That was when, teeth gritted, eyes rolling, she said to the driver of the truck: We’ll go west.

At first she had meant nothing farther away than Alexandria. She filled the first part of their bumpy ride with plans — she still had money left, and there would be more now with that truckful of goods. It could lead to anything — a new house, a shop, even a factory. But, at the crossroads near ad-Dilinjat, Abu Fahl and Zaghloul spotted the fine two-storey houses their fathers and Abusa’s father had built with their Ghazira-earned money. They looked down the road at distant, difficult Alexandria, and then back again at their fields and the houses with their crenellated pigeon-towers; they saw their lands growing, brides smiling and children playing naked in the canals as they had done themselves. And then there was no holding them.