Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Soon they saw it: like a city in the sea; so vast that it took a full half-hour to climb over the horizon, emerging gradually, in layers, until even at that distance it was like a marine skyscraper, dwarfing the little flotilla of destroyers in its wake. It grew vaster and vaster as it ploughed towards them. They could see planes on its flat deck now, and tiny men in uniform, and towers and turrets.

Those are guns, said Fikry, not these water-pistols we’re selling.

They were all crowded along the sides of Zeynab now, watching in silent awe. As it drew closer its flat deck became part of the sky above them and they could only see the curving black steel of its side. Even its bow wave was higher than the tallest mast in Zeynab . When it was almost level with them Abu Fahl let out a great yell and Zaghloul tore off his scarf and waved it in the air. Next moment the tiny Zeynab erupted into shouts and whistles and cheers.

He of the Japanese Miracle was watching, too, but he had ducked down and was squinting over the railing, his face screwed small like an angry boy’s. Then suddenly he leapt to his feet, gabbling incoherently in bellowing grunts and snorts, and waved the Japanese Miracle in the air. As the aircraft-carrier drew level with Zeynab his gabblings rose to a frenzy. Before anyone could stop him he threw one leg over the railing, swung his arms back and hurled the Japanese Miracle at the vast ship.

And just then, while his hands were still in the air and his leg was hanging precariously over the side, the aircraft-carrier’s bow wave hit Zeynab and tossed her up. The old man tottered and clutched wildly at the rail. But the timber was wet, his hands slipped, and with a last terrified grunt he fell.

Even before he struck the water it had erupted with the thrashing of sharks’ tails.

Alu was closest to him and he shouted: He’s gone over. He whipped round and reached for a rope. But no sooner had he picked it up than it slid out of his hands. He tried again; and again, like water, the rope poured out of his hands. So he stood there frozen, staring at his hands in helpless horror.

Do something, Kulfi shrieked. Throw him the rope.

He looked up then, and said: I can’t.

Instead it was Abu Fahl who ran there and flung a rope over the side. They could still see the old man, though the water around him was already frothing with blood. A shark rammed into him and dived but an instant later it was snapped in half by its own kin and its severed head floated grotesquely to the surface with a khaki-clad leg still clamped between its jaws.

The old man’s head was still above water, his fear-crazed eyes crying for help. Abu Fahl flung the rope out and the old man lunged with the last reserves of his strength, but the rope danced past his hands on a wave. Abu Fahl threw it out again and this time it went straight to him. They saw his fingers clawing, closing on the rope. Abu Fahl heaved and Zaghloul caught hold of the rope, too, and they hauled it in together, as quickly as they could. They saw his hands, his shoulders, his head, rising safely from the water. Then two sharp fins scythed through the water and afterwards, when the foam cleared, the head, the torso and the shoulders were all gone but the hands and arms and bloody, ragged stumps were still clinging to the rope as though the old man had willed them all his dying strength.

Abu Fahl and Zaghloul covered their faces and prayed.

Later Kulfi went up to Alu, and in front of the whole ship she hissed: Why didn’t you do anything?

In answer he held up his hands and they all saw that his thumbs had gone rigid and the skin had begun to sag on them like the fuzz on fallen apricots.

Kulfi spat on the deck, and held his hand up for everyone to see. Look, she said, you’re looking at the most useless thing in the world — a weaver without thumbs.

She pulled his hand back and slapped his face with it. Hold them up in front of you, she said. They’ll remind you that you can never do anything again. All you’ve got left now are your eyes.

This is how it had happened.

Dr Mishra brought up the matter first, giving Mrs Verma an initial tactical advantage.

Verma, he said, addressing himself to her thin faded husband, as he always did when he wanted to say something important to her. Do you have any ideas for this celebration they’re planning at the hospital?

Startled, Mrs Verma almost spilt the dal she was ladling into Mrs Mishra’s plate (for Mrs Mishra would have nothing to do with the meat curry; vegetarianism was the only issue on which she had ever dared to go against her husband’s declared wishes).

Not that Mrs Verma was surprised: a couple of their Algerian colleagues had already dropped a few hints to her about a get-together. She had expected it, for at about the same time last year they had organized a small celebration to mark the second anniversary of their arrival in El Oued. Since they were to leave in a few months she had taken it for granted that they would do something of the same kind this year; on a larger scale, if anything. But she had taken great care not to mention the matter in Dr Mishra’s hearing. She knew it was going to be a long battle, and she had no intention of hampering herself by choosing her ground first. And now Dr Mishra had conceded her the advantage.

Her husband, following his instructions, said nothing. Instead, Mrs Verma, choosing her words carefully, said: Well, Mishra-sahb, why don’t you tell us what you have in mind?

She knew perfectly well of course: what he had in mind was a repeat of last year.

Last year all the doctors, nurses, and even a few patients, had gathered in a large room in the hospital. First, a couple of their Algerian colleagues had said a few nice things. Then Dr Mishra, with the help of an interpreter, had made a speech.

He began by talking matter-of-factly about how happy he and all the other Indian doctors were to have had this chance to live and work in Algeria for a while — and to earn plenty of money, he added in an undertone (that raised a laugh). He commented on the good sense of the Algerian government in compulsorily repatriating half their salaries to India in foreign exchange. It showed, he said, a genuine understanding of the needs of developing nations (tactfully he said nothing about how the French doctors in Algeria were paid much more than they were, simply for being French). But, then, he went on, it was only to be expected, for they had all seen for themselves how, almost alone among the oil-producing nations, Algeria had forsworn ostentation and concentrated on bettering the lot of the common people; how, in such marked contrast to some neighbouring countries he could name, in Algeria one sensed everywhere an energetic purposiveness, a belief in the future.

But it was only after that, when he began to talk about the Algerian revolution, that he spoke with real emotion. He talked of how he had followed every event in the course of the revolutionary movement in the fifties and sixties; of his great admiration for Ben Bella (causing more than a little embarrassed foot-shuffling in the audience). With a softly confiding wonder that seemed very strange in a man usually so trenchantly cynical, he told them how moving it had been to work in a country that had literally risen from ashes; how it still staggered him to think that this very country had survived one of the most savage wars of this century; that it had lived through the whole wretched catalogue of technology-taught horrors — concentration camps, organized genocide and all the rest — that had been inflicted upon it by the French. It was nothing less, he said, than a testimony to the strength of the human spirit that a people who, of their meagre sixteen millions, had lost one whole million, had yet gone on to face the future without bitterness.