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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1995 by Avon Books.

THE CALCUTTA CHROMOSOME. Copyright © 1995 by Amitav Ghosh. All rights

reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be

reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the

case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For

information address HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New

York, NY 10022.

HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales

promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department,

HarperCollins Publishers In., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

Designed by Kellan Peck

First Perennial edition published 2001.

The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:

Ghosh, Amitav.

The Calcutta Chromosome : a novel of fevers, delirium and discovery /

Amitav Ghosh. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-380-97585-8

I. Title

PR9499.3.G536C36 1997

97-3154

823—dc21

CIP

ISBN 0-380-81394-7 (pbk.)

01 02 03 04 05 WB / RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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contents

dedication

epigraph

august 20: mosquito day

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

the day after

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

thirty-two

thirty-three

thirty-four

thirty-five

thirty-six

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

thirty-nine

forty

forty-one

forty-two

forty-three

forty-four

forty-five

ack nowledgements

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For Koeli

■

■

■

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This day relenting God

Hath placed within my hand

A wondrous thing; and God

Be praised. At His command,

Seeking His secret deeds

With tears and toiling breath,

I find thy cunning seeds,

O million-murdering Death.

Sir Ronald Ross

(Nobel Prize for Medicine, 1902)

august 2 0

■

■

■

mosquito day

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■

one

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IF THE SYSTEM hadn’t stalled Antar would never have

guessed that the scrap of paper on his screen was the

remnant of an ID card. It looked as though it had been

rescued from a fire: its plastic laminate had warped and

melted along the edges. The lettering was mostly illegible

and the photograph had vanished under a smudge of soot.

But a four-inch metal chain had somehow stayed attached: it

hung down in a rusty loop from a perforation in the top left-

hand corner, like a drooping tail. It was the chain that tripped

the system, not the card.

The card turned up in one of those routine inventories

that went flashing around the globe with metronomic

regularity, for no reason that Antar could understand, except

that it was what the system did best. Once it got started it

would keep them coming, hour after hour, an endless

succession of documents and objects, stopping only when

it stumbled on something it couldn’t file: the most trivial

things usually.

Once it was a glass paperweight, of the kind that rain

snowflakes if you turn them upside down; another time it

was a bottle of correcting fluid, from an irrigation overseer’s

office just south of the Aral Sea. Both times the machine

went into a controlled frenzy, firing off questions, one after

another.

Antar had met children who were like that: why? what?

when? where? how? But children asked because they were

curious; with these AVA/IIe systems it was something else

—something that he could only think of as a simulated urge

for self-improvement. He’d been using his Ava for a couple

of years now and he was still awed by her eagerness to

better herself. Anything she didn’t recognize she’d take

apart on screen, producing microscopic structural analyses,

spinning the images around and around, tumbling them

over, resting them on their side, producing ever greater

refinements of detail.

She wouldn’t stop until Antar had told her everything he

knew about whatever it was that she was playing with on

her screen. He’d tried routing her to her own encyclopedias,

but that wasn’t good enough. Somewhere along the line she

had been programmed to hunt out real-time information, and

that was what she was determined to get. Once she’d wrung

the last, meaningless detail out of him, she’d give the object

on her screen a final spin, with a bizarrely human smugness,

before propelling it into the horizonless limbo of her memory.

That time with the paperweight it had taken him a full

minute to notice what was going on. He was reading: he had

been lent a gadget that could project pages from a magazine

or a book on the far wall of the room. So long as he didn’t

move his head too much and hit the right key in a steady

rhythm, Ava couldn’t tell that she didn’t exactly have his full

attention. The device was illegal of course, precisely

because it was meant for people like him, who worked alone,

at home.

Ava didn’t notice the first time but it happened again

with the correcting fluid: he was reading, staring at the wall

when she went deadly quiet. Then suddenly warnings

began to flash on his screen. He whisked the book away but

she already knew something was up. At the end of the week,

he received a notice from his employer, the International

Water Council, telling him that his pay had been docked

because of ‘declining productivity’, warning him that a

further decline could entail a reduction in his retirement

benefits.

He didn’t dare take any more chances after that. He took

the gadget with him that evening, when he went on his hour-

long daily walk to Penn Station. He carried it to the franchise

doughnut shop where he was a regular, down by the Long

Island Railroad ticket counters, and handed it back to the

Sudanese bank-teller who had lent it to him. Antar’s

retirement was only a year away and if his pension rates

went down now he knew he wouldn’t be able to work them

up again. For years he’d been dreaming of leaving New York

and going back to Egypt: of getting out of this musty

apartment where all he could see when he looked down the

street were boarded-up windows stretching across the

fronts of buildings that were almost as empty as his own.

He stopped trying to get the better of Ava after that. He

went back to his job, staring patiently at those endless

inventories, wondering what it was all for.

Years ago, when Antar was a boy, in Egypt, an

archaeologist had turned up at the little hamlet where his

family lived—on a strip of land reclaimed from the desert, on

the western edge of the Nile Delta. The archaeologist was a

woman, a very old Hungarian émigré with skin that was as

brittle and closely veined as a dried eucalyptus leaf. No one

could pronounce her name so the village children named her

al-Magari, the Hungarian.

The Hungarian visited the village several times over a

period of a few months. On the first few occasions she

brought along a small team of assistants and workers. She’d

sit in a canvas-backed chair, under an enormous hat, and

direct the excavations with a silver-tipped cane. Sometimes

she would pay Antar and his cousins to help, after school,

or when their fathers let them off from the fields. Afterwards

the boys would sit around in a circle and watch as she sifted

through the sand and earth with brushes and tweezers,

examining the dirt with magnifying glasses.

‘What is she doing?’ they’d ask each other. ‘What’s it all

for?’ The questions were usually directed at Antar, for he

was the one who always had the answers at school. The

truth was that Antar didn’t know; he was just as puzzled as

they were. But he had a reputation to live up to, so one day

he took a deep breath and announced: ‘I know what they’re

doing: they’re counting the dust; they’re dust-counters.’

‘What?’ said the others, mystified, so he explained that

the Hungarian was counting the dirt in the same way that

old men count prayer beads. They believed him because he

was the brightest boy in the village.

The memory stole upon Antar one afternoon, a brilliantly

sunlit vision of sand and mud-brick and creaking

waterwheels. He’d been struggling to keep himself awake

while a particularly long inventory went flashing by. It was

from

an

administrative

building

that

had

been

commandeered by the International Water Council—some

wretched little Agricultural Extension Office in Ovamboland

or Barotseland. The Investigation Officers had run

everything they could find through Ava, all the endless

detritus of twentieth-century officialdom—paper-clips, file-

covers, diskettes. They appeared to believe that everything

they found in places like those had a bearing on the

depiction of the world’s water supplies.

Antar had never quite understood why they went to so

much trouble, but that morning, thinking of the

archaeologist, he suddenly knew. They saw themselves

making history with their vast water-control experiments:

they wanted to record every minute detail of what they had

done, what they would do. Instead of having a historian sift

through their dirt, looking for meanings, they wanted to do it

themselves: they wanted to load their dirt with their own

meanings.

He sat up with a start and said, in Arabic: ‘That’s what

you are Ava, a Dust-Counter, ’ Addaad al-Turaab.’

He said it under his breath, but Ava heard him anyway.

He could have sworn that she was actually startled: her

‘eye’, a laser-guided surveillance camera, swivelled on him

while the screen misted over with standby graphics. Then

Ava began to spit out translations of the Arabic phrase,

going through the world’s languages in declining order of

population: Mandarin, Spanish, English, Hindi, Arabic,

Bengali… It was funny at first, but when it got to the

dialects of the Upper Amazon Antar couldn’t bear it any

longer. ‘Stop showing off,’ he shouted. ‘You don’t have to

show me you know everything there is to know. Isk uti; shut

up.’

But it was Ava who silenced him instead, serenely

spitting the phrases back at him. Antar listened awestruck as

‘shut up’ took on the foliage of the Upper Amazon.

■

■

■

two

ANTAR WAS WAITING to sign off when the card and

chain showed up on Ava’s screen. His eyes kept straying to

the timeline; he’d been hoping to get off a few minutes early.

His neighbour, a young woman who had moved in next door

a few months earlier, had invited herself over that evening.

She was going to bring dinner. Antar wanted some time to

himself before she came: he’d been planning to get a shower

and go for his usual evening walk to Penn Station. There

was still half an hour to go before he got off, at six.

Restive as he was, Antar probably wouldn’t have given

the card a second glance; left to himself, he’d have

dispatched it with a keystroke, sent it tumbling into the

unbounded darkness of Ava’s heart. It was only because

Ava went into one of her trances of unrecognition over the

metal chain that he took a closer look.

The chain was made up of very small interlocking metal

spheres. It was scuffed and rusted with all the nickel-plating

gone, but Antar knew what it was the moment he saw it.

He’d worn one himself, for years, while he was working at

LifeWatch.

LifeWatch was a small but respected non-profit

organization that served as a global public health

consultancy and epidemiological data bank. Antar had

worked there much of his life, as a programmer and systems

analyst. In a sense he worked there still except that

LifeWatch had long since been absorbed, along with many

other such independent agencies, into the mammoth public

health wing of the newly formed International Water

Council, Like most of his colleagues, Antar had been

assigned to an inconsequential ‘At Home’ job to see him

through to retirement. He was still technically on the

Council’s payrolls, but he had never set foot in its New York

offices. He had not had reason to: they communicated with

him through Ava whenever they wanted, which wasn’t

often.

Antar could remember a time when those little chains had

been standard issue at LifeWatch, along with bar-coded

identity cards. Some people preferred to wear their cards on

clips; he’d always liked the chains himself. He liked the feel

of the metal balls, running through his fingernails; they were

like miniature worry-beads.

He lingered over the chain for a moment. They hadn’t

been around for years now and he couldn’t quite recall when

they were first introduced: probably some time in the 1980s.

He had been at LifeWatch for well over ten years by that

time. He had joined immediately after graduating from Patrice

Lumumba University in Moscow: this was in the days when

the Russians were still handing out scholarships to students

from poor countries; when Moscow was the best place in

the world to study linear programming. Life Watch had

advertised internationally for a programmer and analyst, to

bring their accounts online. It was a number-crunching job,

not what he had been trained for. But, on the other hand, it

was safe, secure, settled, and it offered an American salary

and a guaranteed visa. He’d responded immediately, without

really expecting to get the job: he knew the competition

would be fierce. As it turned out, he was third on the

shortlist but the two people who were ahead of him got

other offers.

Antar rubbed his fingertips, overcome by a tactile

nostalgia, recalling the feel of those chains and those

laminated plastic ID cards. The chains came in two sizes, he

remembered: you could wear them around your neck or

thread them through a buttonhole. He’d always preferred the

shorter chains.

He took his time, keying in answers to Ava’s questions.

In the meanwhile Ava was toying with the card, flipping it

over, blowing up segments in random order.

Suddenly a symbol flashed across the monitor, shooting

off at an angle, rotating and diminishing as it went. It caught

Antar’s eye just before it spun off the edge of the screen. He

lunged at the keyboard, and tracked slowly back. When he

had the symbol centred he froze the frame.

It was years since he’d seen the once-familiar logo of

LifeWatch, a neatly stylized image of two intertwined laurel

wreaths. And here it was now, in front of him, plucked out of

the bottom of a lost ID card. Antar turned the card over, on

Ava’s screen, intrigued at the sight of the symbol, so well

known and so long forgotten. He brought the card back on

screen, life size, and blew it up, slowly. There couldn’t be

any doubt about it: it was a LifeWatch ID.

He guessed the card was from the mid-eighties or early

nineties or thereabouts—a time when he had spent so many

hours with spreadsheets that he’d got to know every name

that ever appeared on Life Watch’s payroll. Looking at that

grubby old card suspended in front of him he began to

wonder whom it had belonged to. He was sure he’d know

the name—that at the very least. He might even recognize

the face in the picture.

Without thinking, he tapped in a sequence of commands.

Ava’s screen went momentarily blank as she began

reconstructing the card, restoring the original. Almost

immediately Antar regretted the command. The process

could take a while, and sign-off time was just twenty-five

minutes away now. He gave his chair a kick, annoyed with

himself. As the chair spun around, he noticed that a word

had appeared on the screen, under a line that said ‘Point of

Origin’. Jamming his foot on the floor, he brought the chair

to a halt.

He didn’t usually bother to check where the inventories

originated: they came through in such quantities it didn’t

seem to matter much. But he was curious now, especially

when ‘Lhasa’ appeared on his screen. He tried to think back

to the eighties and nineties and whether Life Watch had had

an office there at the time. Then he noticed that the word

‘Lhasa’ was prefixed by a symbol which indicated that the

item had merely joined the information flow there. It had

been found somewhere else.

He looked over his shoulder and discovered that the pale

outline of an enormous white triangle had begun to

materialize in his living room, a few feet away. Ava had

started to create a holographic projection of the

reconstructed card: the cloudy triangle represented the top

left-hand corner, hugely magnified. He began to drum his

fingers on the arms of his chair, wondering whether he had

the energy or the inclination to ask Ava where the card had

been found. It was always hard to tell when something came

through Lhasa.

Lhasa was the International Water Council’s continental

command centre for Asia. The Council’s officers called it the

de facto capital of Asia because it had the unique distinction

of being the only command centre in the world that was in

charge of not one but several major Hydraulic Regions: the

Ganges-Brahmaputra, the Mekong, the trans-Yangtze, the

Hwang-Ho. The Council’s information streams for the

eastern half of the continent were all routed through Lhasa.

This meant that the card could have entered the system

anywhere between Karachi and Vladivostok.

He looked over his shoulder again. Ava was taking

longer than he’d thought: she was just getting started on

the photograph, at the top right-hand corner of the card. He

glanced at the timeline. He really didn’t have much time if he

was going to walk down to Penn Station before his

neighbour, Tara, came over.

Idly, waiting for Ava to put the photograph together, he

typed in another command, asking for a follow-up narrative

on the card’s chain of provenances. Ava took an instant

longer than usual, but it was still no more than a couple of

seconds before she produced the name of the city where the

card had been found.

It was Calcutta.

■

■

■

three

WAITING FOR AVA to get on with the card, Antar pushed

his chair back, on its castors, until he could look into his

kitchen, through the door of his living room. There was a

window above the sink, and by craning his neck he could

just about see the back of Tara’s apartment, on the far side

of the building’s air-shaft. He was relieved to see that she

wasn’t home yet; the apartment was still dark.

He slumped back in his chair, yawning. His eyes began to

glaze over at the thought of the steaming cup of sweet, dark

tea that was waiting for him at the neon-lit doughnut shop in

Penn Station; of the other regulars who occasionally

dropped by to sit around the plastic-topped table—the

Sudanese bank-teller, the well-dressed Guyanese woman

who worked in a Chelsea used-clothes store, the young

Bangladeshi man from the subway news-stand. Often they

just sat in companionable silence around a circular plastic-

topped table at the back of the shop, sipping tea or coffee

out of paper cups while watching tapes of Arabic and Hindi

films on a small portable monitor. But every once in a while,

there would be a discussion, or they would exchange tips—

about a gadget that was on sale somewhere, or some new

scam for saving on subway tokens.

Antar had started going to the doughnut place because

the owner of the franchise was an Egyptian, like himself. Not

that he missed speaking Arabic: far from it. He got plenty of

that all day long, from Ava. Ever since she was programmed

to simulate ‘localization’ Ava had been speaking to him in

the appropriate rural dialect of the Nile Delta. Her voice-

reproduction capabilities had been upgraded so that she

could even switch intonations depending on what was

being said—from young to old, male to female. Antar had

grown rusty in the dialect; he was just fourteen when he left

his village for Cairo and had never been back. At times he

had trouble following Ava. And then there were times when

he would recognize the authorship of a long-forgotten

relative in an unusual expression or characteristic turn of

phrase.

It was a relief to escape from those voices in the

evenings; to step out of that bleak, cold building, encaged in

its scaffolding of rusty steel fire escapes; to get away from

the metallic echo of its stairways and corridors. There was

something enlivening, magical almost, about walking from

that wind-blown street into the brilliantly lit passageways of

Penn Station, about the surging crowds around the ticket

counters, the rumble of trains under one’s feet, the deep,

bass hum of a busker’s didgeridoo throbbing in the concrete

like an amplified heartbeat.

And of course there was the tea. The owner brewed it

specially, for himself and Antar, in a chipped enamel pot,

thick and syrupy, with a touch of mint—just like Antar

remembered from his boyhood.

He ran a finger around his damp collar. It was clammy

inside today: too hot if he shut the window and too damp if

he left it open. Downstairs, the building’s front door was

opening and closing in a steady rhythm: he could feel the

impact through the floor, every time it slammed shut. The

people who worked in the warehouses and storage spaces

on the first three floors were on their way home now, a little

early because of the long weekend ahead. He could hear

them on the street, shouting to each other as they walked

towards the subway station on 7th Avenue. He was always

relieved when the banging stopped and the building fell

silent again.

There was a time when there were nothing but apartments

in the building, all rented to families: large, noisy Middle

Eastern and Central Asian families—Kurds, Afghans, Tajiks

and even a few Egyptians. He had often had to knock on his

neighbours’ doors, asking them to keep it down. Tayseer,

his wife, had become very sensitive to noise after she was

confined to bed in the last trimester of her pregnancy. In the

past she had never noticed when the neighbours made a

racket shouting across the air-shaft, or when their kids

skateboarded in the corridors. She had grown up within

earshot of the canopied souks around the Bab Zuwayla in

Cairo: she liked the bazaarish feel of the building, with

everyone dropping in on each other and sitting out on the

stoop on summer evenings, while children played around

the fire hydrant. She liked the building, even though the

neighbourhood scared her, especially the heavy traffic on

either side of it—the West Side Highway at one end and the

approaches to the Lincoln Tunnel at the other. But she’d

wanted to move there anyway: she thought it would be

easier having a baby there, with so many women and

children around.

In the end it didn’t matter: an amniotic embolism killed her

and the baby in the thirty-fifth week of her pregnancy.

They were all gone now, all those noisy, festive families

that had so attracted Tayseer. They had been syphoned

slowly away into small towns and suburbs by the demands

of their expanding businesses and their ever-growing

families. Antar had sometimes thought of moving too, but

never with much conviction.

At first he had expected that the building would fill up

around him after his old neighbours left—just as it had in

earlier generations, with one wave of migrants moving out

and another moving in. But somewhere down the line the

pattern had changed: an alteration in the zoning regulations

had prompted the building’s owners to start converting

empty apartments into commercial properties.

Soon the only residents left were ageing holdovers like

himself: people who couldn’t afford to move out of their

rent-controlled apartments. Every year the building grew

emptier of people, while the storage spaces expanded.

The man in the next apartment had been there since

before Antar moved in. He was a keen chess player and

claimed to be related to Tigran Petrossian. Antar played with

him occasionally, losing badly every time.

Then one summer—was it fifteen or twenty years ago?—

the chess player began to waste away. He couldn’t play

chess any more; he barely had the strength to move the

pieces. His nephews drove up from North Carolina, where

the rest of his family had settled. They cleared out his

apartment and loaded everything into a yellow moving truck.

Before they left they gave Antar a gunmetal chess set, as a

memento; he still had it somewhere. Antar had watched from

his living room window as they carried the chess player

away in the truck.

Next it was the woman in the apartment below. She had

been in the building since the sixties, when she first came to

America from Azerbaijan. She had grown old in that

apartment, brought up two children there; she had nowhere

to go, especially after her eyesight began to fail. In that

familiar space she could still manage on her own; she would

have been at a loss anywhere else. Her children had let her

stay, giving in to her entreaties against their better

judgement. They’d fly in to visit, every other month, from

the small Midwestern town where they lived. They arranged

to have food delivered to her twice a week, from an uptown

grocery.

And one day the delivery boy killed her, battering her

head in with a cast-iron skillet. It was Antar who found the

body. He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of her

movements, and when he didn’t hear the familiar tapping of

her cane for a whole day, he knew something was wrong.

He’d lived alone on the fourth floor for four years. Then,

a few months ago Maria, the Guyanese woman from the

doughnut shop, brought Tara to Penn Station and

introduced her to the other regulars. Tara was small and

birdlike, with a fine-boned beak of a nose. She was youngish

—in her thirties, Antar reckoned—a good deal younger than

Maria. He guessed at once that she was from India: the

connection was obvious really, because Maria was a

Guyanese of Indian origin and he knew she still had relatives

there.

The two women made an interesting contrast, although

they seemed very easy with each other. Maria was tall,

stately and unfailingly well dressed although she barely

made minimum wage. Tara on the other hand seemed so

uncomfortable in Western clothes that it was clear she’d just

arrived: the first time she came to Penn Station she was

wearing a loose white shirt that hung halfway down to her

knees and a pair of dark trousers that flapped limply above

her ankles.

But there was nothing awkward or freshly arrived about

her manner. She gave Antar a smile and a crisp nod when

they were introduced and slipped into the chair next to his.

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ she said, tapping his cup.

Mint tea, he explained, the owner of the shop brewed it

especially for him, Egyptian-style.

‘Splendid!’ she said. ‘Exactly the kind of thing I had in

mind. Would you be good enough to ask him if I might have

some too?’

Antar was taken aback by her voice: the plummy accent

and the unexpected turn of phrase.

On the way out, walking towards the Broadway exit,

Maria took him aside to say that Tara was looking for an

apartment; that she had just found a job and needed a place

to stay, in Manhattan.

‘What does she do?’ Antar asked.

‘She’s in child-care,’ said Maria.

‘You mean she’s a babysitter?’ Antar was surprised:

somehow Tara didn’t strike him as someone who would

choose to look after children for a living.

‘Yes,’ said Maria. She went on to explain that Tara had

been brought into the country by a Kuwaiti diplomat and his

family, to care for their children. The arrangement hadn’t

worked out so she’d found another babysitting job, in

Greenwich Village. But the family she was working for now

couldn’t give her a place to stay.

Antar nodded. Although Maria didn’t say so, he guessed

that the change of jobs had made Tara’s status illegal and

that she needed to find a place where she could pay cash

without having to deal with a lot of questions.

He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I can

do.’

Maria raised her eyebrows. ‘But I’ve heard there’s lots of

empty space in your building,’ she said. ‘Isn’t there a vacant

apartment on your floor?’

Antar was taken aback. ‘How do you know where I live?’

he said. One of the unwritten rules of the doughnut shop

was that they never enquired too closely into the details of

each other’s lives.

Maria made a bemused gesture. ‘Oh, I just heard from

someone…’ she said. Her voice trailed away.

Antar had grown accustomed to having the fourth floor

entirely to himself: he balked at the thought of having a

neighbour again. ‘It wouldn’t be right for her,’ he said. ‘The

building’s in terrible shape, and so’s the apartment.’

But he gave in when Maria begged him to show Tara the

building: the neighbourhood would scare her off anyway, he

decided.

He was proved wrong: Tara took an instant liking to the

apartment and moved in within the month. It still took him by

surprise when he went into his kitchen and saw lights

blazing across the air-shaft. For years he had kept the

kitchen window curtained because all there was in the

airshaft were dead rats and pigeons. Now he frequently

found himself lingering there longer than he needed to.

Antar’s eyes strayed to the timeline once again. ‘Is it a

quarter to six already?’ he said out loud, inadvertently.

Instantly Ava bellowed confirmation, calling out the hour

in the style of a village watchman in Egypt, perfect in every

detail, down to the tapping of a wooden staff.

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four

THE PHOTOGRAPH on the ID card had begun to take shape

in the centre of the living room, top downwards. The first

detail to appear was a patch of hair, carefully trimmed, but

rather thin and discoloured: definitely a man’s hair. Then

came a pair of bright black eyes. It occurred to Antar to

wonder whether he might be Egyptian, whoever he was: he

could have been—but he could just as well be Pakistani or

Indian or Latin American.

But once the cheeks and nose and mouth appeared,

Antar had no doubts left. He’d always been good at placing

people, he prided himself on it, it was a talent you developed

when you spent a lifetime working for a global agency. The

man was Indian, he was sure of that.

The image was huge now, and it was shaking a little, like

a banner in the wind. The face was full, moonlike, the cheeks

as puffed as a trumpeter’s, the aggressively jutting chin

ending in a carefully trimmed goatee. It was the nose that

gave Antar pause—a boxer’s nose, sunken at the bridge. It

looked out of place in that well-fed, rounded face. And it

also looked somehow familiar.

Antar got up from his chair and stepped back: it was

oddly disconcerting to look at a flat, two-dimensional image

in a three-dimensional projection. He stepped to one side

and then to the other, keeping his eyes on the image’s

mouth. He noticed that the lips were slightly parted as

though in mid-sentence. The beginnings of a memory began

to take shape in his mind—of someone glimpsed in elevators

and corridors, a tubby little man with a pot belly, always

immaculately

dressed—pin-striped

suits,

razor-edged

trousers, starched shirts, always buttoned at the wrist, even

on the hottest of summer days. And a hat—he’d always had

a hat. That was why it had taken Antar so long to recognize

him. He had never seen the man’s hair; his head was usually

covered—no wonder, really, with hair like that.

The image grew clearer in Antar’s mind: he remembered

seeing the man strutting busily down corridors, shoes

clicking on marble, with files tucked under his arm; he had a

recollection of an unplaceable accent, neither American nor

Indian nor anything else, and a loud, screeching, self-

satisfied voice; a voice that would fill crowded elevators and

echo through the Trust’s polished lobby, leaving behind a

trail of amused glances and whispered questions: ‘Who the

hell is that?’ and ‘Oh, don’t you know? That’s our own

Mr…’

He recalled a meeting, a conversation somewhere, years

ago, sitting across a table. But just as the memory was

beginning to take on an outline, it dissolved.

The name: that was the key. What was his name?

It began to appear, a few seconds later, slowly, letter by

letter, and then suddenly Antar knew. Already, when there

were no more than four letters in front of him, he had darted

over to Ava’s keyboard and fed it in, along with a search

command.

The name was L. Murugan.

The first search drew a blank, so then Antar took Ava

hurrying into the Council’s vast archives where the records

of all the old global organizations were kept. It took a full ten

minutes before the doorkeeper systems allowed him into the

stacks, but once he was in, it was a matter of moments.

He smiled when the old-fashioned file turned up in front

of him: a tiny little character, the Arabic letter ‘ain, blinked at

him from the top of the screen, above the heading ‘L.

Murugan’. He knew that symbol: he had put it there himself.

Someone in the office had started a pool, taking in bets to

see who used Spellcheck most often. They’d all devised

symbols for themselves, to mark their work. He’d chosen the

‘ain because it was the first letter in his name, ‘Antar.

But the file surprised him: he had expected something

longer, bulkier; he had a recollection of feeding in a lot of

material. He flipped quickly through it, going straight to the

end.

On reaching the last line, he sat back, rubbing his chin.

He remembered it now—he had typed it in himself, just a few

years ago.

Subject missing since August 21 1995, it said, last seen

Calcutta, India.

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five

WALKING PAST St Paul’s Cathedral, on his first day in

Calcutta, August 20 1995, Murugan was caught unawares

by a monsoon downpour. He was on his way to the

Presidency General Hospital, on Lower Circular Road, to

look for the memorial to the British scientist Ronald Ross.

He had seen pictures of it and knew exactly what to look

for. It was an arch, built into the hospital’s perimeter wall,

near the site of Ross’s old laboratory. It had a medallion with

a portrait and an inscription that said: In the small

laboratory seventy yards to the southeast of this gate

Surgeon-Major Ronald Ross I.M.S. in 1898 discovered the

manner in which malaria is conveyed by mosquitoes.

He hadn’t far to go when the rain caught up with him. He

felt the first drops on his green baseball cap and turned to

see an opaque wall of rain moving towards him, across the

green expanse of the Maidan. He quickened his pace,

swearing at himself for having left his umbrella behind at the

guest house. The snack vendors at the Fine Arts gallery,

racing to cover their baskets with tarpaulin, stopped to stare

as he trotted past, in his khaki suit and green baseball cap.

He had packed an umbrella of course, a Cadillac of an

umbrella, which opened at the touch of a button: he knew

perfectly well what Calcutta was like at this time of year. But

the umbrella was still in his suitcase, in the guest house on

Robinson Street. He had been so eager to make his

pilgrimage to Ross’s memorial that he had forgotten to

unpack it.

The rain was hard on his heels now. He spotted the gates

of the Rabindra Sadan auditorium standing open, a short

distance away, and began to run. A honking minibus sent a

jet of water shooting up from a puddle as it roared past,

drenching his khaki Prado trousers. Still running, Murugan

made a forefinger gesture at the conductor, who was

hanging out of the door of the bus, watching him. There was

a shout of laughter and the bus sped away, spitting parasols

of grey-green exhaust.

Murugan turned into Rabindra Sadan just ahead of the

rain, and went leaping up the stairs. The outer gallery of the

auditorium was brightly lit and hung with posters: he could

hear a microphone scratching and humming inside. He could

tell that a big event was under way: people were pressing in

around the door of the auditorium, trying to push through.

A television crew went rushing past, as he watched,

carrying cables and cameras. Then the light; dimmed and he

was alone in the gallery.

Turning away, he looked out through a window, at the

walls of P. G. Hospital, in the distance, hoping to catch a

glimpse of the memorial to Ross. But just then the

auditorium’s loudspeakers came alive and a thin, rasping

voice began to declaim. It forced itself on his attention,

insistent in its amplified gravity.

‘Every city has its secrets,’ the voice began, ‘but

Calcutta, whose vocation is excess, has so many that it is

more secret than any other. Elsewhere, by the workings of

paradox, secrets live in the telling: they whisper life into

humdrum street corners and dreary alleyways; into the

rubbish-strewn rears of windowless tenements and the

blackened floors of oil-bathed workshops. But here in our

city where all law, natural and human, is held in capricious

suspension, that which is hidden has no need of words to

give it life; like any creature that lives in a perverse element,

it mutates to discover sustenance precisely where it appears

to be most starkly withheld—in this case, in silence.’

Taken by surprise, Murugan looked up and down the

glass-fronted hall. It was still empty. Then he noticed two

women running up the stairs. They came pelting into the hall

and stood by the door, wiping the rain from their hair and

shaking it off their saris. One of them was in her mid-

twenties, a thin aquiline woman with a fine-boned face,

dressed in a limp, rather bedraggled sari. The other was taller

and older, in the beginnings of a youthful middle age, darkly

handsome and quietly elegant, in a black cotton sari. She

had a broad streak of white running all the way down her

shoulder-length hair.

As he made his way across the hall, Murugan noticed

that both women had press tags pinned to their shoulders,

over their saris. When he was a few paces away he

recognized a familiar logo: both their tags bore the name of

Calcutta magazine.

It gave Murugan a twinge to see the magazine’s Gothic

masthead again: his parents had been faithful Calcutta

subscribers. The sight of that familiar lettering, reproduced

in miniature, created an instant sense of connection with the

two women.

Craning his neck he saw that the younger woman was

called Urmila Roy; the tall, elegant one was Sonali Das.

Murugan stepped up and cleared his throat.

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six

URMILA WAS just about to ask Sonali a question when

she was interrupted. She spun around, in annoyance, and

discovered a short, odd-looking man standing at her elbow,

clearing his throat. Her eyes widened as she took in his

green cap, his little goatee and his mud-spattered khaki

trousers. Then he said something, very fast. It took her a

while to work out that he was speaking English: the accent

was like none she had ever heard before.

She cast a quizzical, raised-eyebrow glance at her friend,

Sonali, but failed to catch her eye. Sonali did not seem in the

least bit put out by the man. In fact she was smiling at’ him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t follow.’

The man flipped his thumb over his shoulder, in the

direction of the auditorium. ‘What the hell is going on in

there?’ he said, a little slower this time.

Urmila answered before Sonali could, in the hope that he

would go away. ‘It is an award ceremony,’ she said. ‘For

Phulboni, the writer—to mark his eighty-fifth birthday.’

Instead of going away, the man now started to introduce

himself—muttering a name that sounded like Morgan. Sonali

gave him a smile that could easily be mistaken for a sign of

encouragement. You could hardly blame him for lingering.

‘Phulboni?’ said Murugan, scratching his beard. ‘The

writer?’

‘Yes,’ Sonali said softly. ‘Our greatest living writer.’

Urmila gave Sonali a nudge. ‘Sonali-di,’ she said. ‘There’s

something I wanted to ask you…’

The man went on, without missing a breath, as though he

hadn’t heard her. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve heard of him.’

Sonali reached into her handbag, took out a cigarette and

began to fumble with a lighter. Urmila was mildly shocked:

she knew Sonali smoked of course, she had seen her light up

in her office. But here, in public?

‘Sonali-di!’ she said in an undertone. ‘Everyone in

Calcutta is here; what if someone sees…?’

‘It’s all right, Urmila,’ Sonali said wearily, gesturing at the

empty hallway. ‘No one’s looking this way.’ She lit the

cigarette and blew the smoke into the air, throwing her head

back.

‘I remember,’ Murugan said suddenly. ‘“Phulboni” is the

guy’s pen-name, right?’

‘That is right,’ Sonali nodded. ‘His real name is Saiyad

Murad Husain. He began writing under a pen-name because

his father threatened to disown him if he became a writer.’

‘That’s just a legend,’ said Urmila.

‘Phulboni would be the first to tell you,’ Sonali said with

a laugh, ‘that legends aren’t always untrue.’

Suddenly the writer’s voice rose, booming out of a

loudspeaker. ‘Mistaken are those who imagine that silence is

without life; that it is inanimate, without either spirit or voice.

It is not: indeed the Word is to this silence what the shadow

is to the foreshadowed, what the veil is to the eyes, what the

mind is to truth, what language is to life.’

Sonali blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Just listen to him!’ she

said, cocking her head to catch his voice. ‘He’s really

worked himself up today. He often gets like this nowadays,

especially when he’s speaking English. You should have

heard him the other day at the Alliance Française.’

Urmila noticed, to her dismay, that Sonali was smiling at

Murugan again, almost as if she were egging him on. Her

heart sank. Sonali was always doing things like this—

stopping to talk to strangers, getting into conversations in

the lift and missing her floor and so on. As a rule Urmila

didn’t mind: if anything she thought it endearing that

someone as celebrated as Sonali Das should take such

evident pleasure in talking to people she didn’t know. But

today Urmila was in a hurry: she had an assignment to finish

and she needed to talk to Sonali.

Earlier in the day she’d dropped in on Sonali, at her fifth-

floor office, to suggest that they go over to the ceremony

together, hoping to talk to her on the way. But inevitably,

they ended up in one of those taxis whose drivers seemed

incapable of finding their way from one end of Chowringhee

to the other. She and Sonali had spent the entire twenty

minutes of the drive from the magazine’s Dharmatola office

to Rabindra Sadan hanging over the front seat and issuing

minute by minute instructions: ‘Turn right here… look out…

bus ahead… dog there… ditch in front.’

And now, just when she had finally got her alone, here

was this odd-looking man in the cap and the goatee.

Urmila considered making a more forceful interruption

and then decided against it. She was still a little unsure of

herself with Sonali: in fact it hadn’t been at all easy to go up

to her office today, without an invitation.

Urmila had been working at Calcutta since college, three

years ago. She prided herself on dealing with hard news, on

being the only woman on the reporting desk. She no longer

thought anything of storming into the Home Secretary’s

office in Writer’s Building, or of asking pointed questions at

the Chief Minister’s press conferences. But when it came to

Sonali Das she found herself becoming unaccustomedly shy

and tongue-tied. Sonali was such a presence in the city; the

kind of person you read about in film magazines and

newspaper gossip columns; whose name you grew used to

hearing on the lips of your aunts and cousins, pronounced

with equal measures of censoriousness and admiration,

envy and outrage. She was one of those people whom

everyone talked about without quite knowing why.

In part, her fame was due to her late mother, a famous

stage actress from the forties and fifties. But Sonali had

acted in a couple of Bombay films herself while still in her

teens. The first one created a sensation, because it wasn’t

the usual song-and-dance affair. But then, just when she

looked set for a big career, she left Bombay and came back

to Calcutta. A few years later, she published a wonderful

little memoir, funny, but also wistful, even sad. It was mainly

about her mother, but also partly about her own childhood

—about her mother’s friends in the literary world, about the

old

studios

in

Tollygunge

and

Bombay,

about

accompanying her mother when she acted with jatra

companies that travelled the countryside staging vast

historical melodramas. A radical young director turned the

book into a play; the play, in turn, was filmed, to much

acclaim from critics and film societies. From then on, Sonali

Das was permanently famous, even though she never did

anything else—or at least not until she agreed to join

Calcutta, at the owner’s special request, to look after the

women’s supplement.

Urmila was intrigued to hear of Sonali’s appointment at

the magazine, but she hadn’t for a moment imagined that

they would become friends. And then one day she found

herself standing beside Sonali in the lift. She recognized her

instantly, even though she’d only set eyes on her once

before, years ago. She was much changed, but Urmila

decided at once that the changes were all for the better: that

white streak in her hair, for instance—she was right to let it

show. It suited her, marked her out.

After the first quick glance, Urmila kept her eyes carefully

on the lift door, determined not to stare. But before she knew

it Sonali was talking to her. Within minutes they were sitting

in the magazine’s grimy little canteen, drinking tea and

chatting.

Urmila had broken her watch strap that morning, while

struggling to keep her footing on a crowded minibus. She

felt foolish mentioning it: what possible interest could

someone like Sonali Das have in a broken watch strap? But

far from being bored, Sonali proved to be very useful: she

told her about a stall near Metro Cinema where you could

get your watch strap fixed for a couple of rupees. Urmila was

astonished that she should know about something like that.

And now, in the same indiscriminately helpful way, Sonali

was telling the stranger with the goatee that the Vice-

President had come all the way from Delhi to give Phulboni

his award.

Urmila could tell that the only way they were ever going

to get rid of the man was by going into the auditorium.

‘Come on, Sonali-di,’ she said, jogging her arm. ‘Let’s go, or

we’ll miss everything.’

Sonali took a last, long drag on the cigarette and stuck

the glowing tip into a sand-filled ashtray. ‘I’m afraid we have

to go now,’ she said flashing Murugan a smile. ‘My friend

here has work to do.’

Urmila led the way to a door and pushed it open. The

auditorium was packed: waves of heads rippled away

towards the brilliantly floodlit stage, where a tall, white-

haired man was standing at a lectern, wearing a plain white

shirt and an old fashioned, high-waisted pair of trousers of a

faded military green. The spotlights above had cast long

shadows over his craggy face, but there was no mistaking

the dark, glittering eyes beneath the jutting brow. Urmila

froze: she had heard so much about him, read so much he

had written, but she had never set eyes on him before, not in

the flesh.

She took a hesitant step along the darkened aisle.

Absently she noted that the Vice-President was swaying

sleepily on stage, behind Phulboni.

The writer was gripping the edge of the lectern, leaning

forward, speaking in a low, rasping voice. ‘The silence of the

city,’ he said, ‘has sustained me through all my years of

writing: kept me alive in the hope that it would claim me too

before my ink ran dry. For more years than I can count I

have wandered the darkness of these streets, searching for

the unseen presence that reigns over this silence, striving to

be taken in, begging to be taken across before my time runs

out. The time of the crossing is at hand, I know, and that is

why I am here now, standing in front of you: to beg—to

appeal to the mistress of this silence, that most secret of

deities, to give me what she has so long denied: to show

herself to me…’

Urmila cast a glance over her shoulder, down the aisle.

She noticed that Murugan had followed close behind and

was standing at her side, trying to push his way into the

auditorium. An usher walked up, torch in hand. He glanced

at Sonali’s press tag and then at Urmila’s and waved them

through. Walking down the darkened aisle Urmila looked

back again. She was relieved to see that the usher was

leading Murugan firmly out of the auditorium.

On the stage there was a minor commotion: the Vice-

President’s drowsily nodding head had knocked against the

back of his chair.

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seven

SUMMONING a dedicated Dåkala-class courier signal

Antar sent off a message to the Council’s headquarters to

let them know he had found the ID card of a LifeWatch

employee missing since August 21 1995. Then he settled

back in his chair and began to browse through the file that

Ava had fetched from the Council archives. They’d want it

back in an hour or so, and he knew he ought to go through

it, just in case headquarters wanted him to do any follow-up

work. From the look of it he estimated it would take him

twenty minutes or so—leaving him just enough time for a

walk to Penn Station before his dinner appointment with

Tara.

In a few minutes he discovered that the file consisted

largely of notices and newspaper clippings that had

appeared at the time of L. Murugan’s ‘disappearance’. For

the most part they merely reproduced the gossip that had

circulated in the office. At the time, Antar remembered,

everyone had assumed that ‘disappearance’ was just a

euphemism for suicide.

Some of the clippings referred to the obviously desultory

search that had been launched by the Indian police

immediately after the ‘disappearance’: it wasn’t hard to see

that they, no less than Murugan’s colleagues at LifeWatch,

had decided on a euphemistic use of the word.

It was the last item in the file that gave Antar pause. It

was an article from an unexpected source, LifeWatch’s

internal newsletter. The piece had the reminiscent, quietly

respectful tone of an obituary although the writer was

careful to describe Murugan as ‘missing’ rather than ‘dead’.

It began on the customary anecdotal note, referring to him

as ‘Morgan’—‘the name by which his friends knew him’. It

described him as a ‘cocky little rooster of a man’; it talked,

not without fondness, of his combativeness, of how he

could never resist an argument, of his apparently

unstoppable fluency; of the many contributions he had

made as LifeWatch’s principal archivist. It touched on his

‘global’ childhood spent wandering between the world’s

capitals with his technocrat father and spoke briefly of his

love of Hollywood B-movies and old American TV serials

—‘the only constant, as for so many, in a peripatetic,

internationalized coming-of-age’.

It was as a graduate student at Syracuse, the article said,

that ‘Morgan’ first discovered the great love of his life: the

medical history of malaria. He spent several years teaching

in a small college in upstate New York, and during this time

he came to be increasingly interested in one highly

specialized aspect of this subject: the early history of malaria

research. Later, even while working for LifeWatch, he had

seized every spare moment to pursue this avenue of

research—often to the detriment of his own career. He had

published little or nothing in those years, but he had often

claimed, in his flippant way, that he enjoyed the happy

situation of being pre-eminent in his field by virtue of having

it all to himself.

This subject was the research career of the British poet,

novelist and scientist, Ronald Ross.

Born in India in 1857, Ross was awarded the Nobel Prize

in 1902 for his work on the life cycle of the malaria parasite.

At the time it had been widely assumed that this epochal

discovery would lead to the eradication of what was

possibly the world’s oldest and most widespread disease: an

expectation, alas, that had been sadly belied, as Life Watch

had discovered to its cost. In occasional moments of

seriousness, Murugan had been known to admit that his

interest in this rather obscure subject had initially had a

biographical origin. The last crucial phase of Ronald Ross’s

work was done in Calcutta, in the summer of 1898. Murugan

was himself born in that city, although he left it at an early

age.

Possibly this biographical connection had something to

do with the obsessive nature of Murugan’s interest in this

subject. In 1987 he let some of his friends know that he had

finally written a summary of his research in an article entitled

‘Certain Systematic Discrepancies in Ronald Ross’s account

of Plasmodium B’. Although some of his colleagues

expressed interest, none of them ever got to see this article.

It received such negative preliminary reports at all the

journals to which it was submitted that Murugan decided to

revise it before putting it in circulation.

As it turned out, however, the revised article fared no

better than the original. The new piece bore the unfortunate

title ‘An Alternative Interpretation of Late Nineteenth-

Century Malaria Research: is there a Secret History?’. It met

with an even more hostile reception than the earlier version,

and it only served to brand Murugan as a crank and an

eccentric.

In 1989 Murugan wrote to the History of Science Society

proposing a panel on early malaria research for the Society’s

next convention. When the proposal was rejected he sent

pages-long E-mail messages to members of the review

committee, jamming their mailboxes. A year later the Society

took the unprecedented step of revoking his membership.

He was warned that he would face legal action if he tried to

attend any further meetings. It was then that Murugan

finally gave up trying to argue his case in public.

Generally speaking, Murugan’s colleagues at LifeWatch

treated his ‘research’ as a harmless if time-consuming

hobby: no one thought the worse of him for it, except when

it detracted from his regular work. But it was soon apparent

to those who knew him well that he had taken his ostracism

from the scholarly community very hard. Indeed, this may

well have been the proximate cause of his increasingly

erratic and obsessional behaviour. It was at about this time

for instance, that he began to speak openly about his notion

of the so-called ‘Other Mind’: a theory that some person or

persons had systematically interfered with Ronald Ross’s

experiments to push malaria research in certain directions

while leading it away from others. His advocacy of this

bizarre hypothesis gradually led to his estrangement from

several of his friends and associates.

Murugan believed that the developments in malaria

research that occurred in the early 1990s—such as

Patarroyo’s immunological work, and the breakthroughs in

research on antigenic variations in the Plasmodium

falciparum parasite—were the most important advances in

the subject since Ross’s work almost a century before.

Murugan persuaded himself (and tried to persuade others)

that these developments would have the effect of

vindicating his life’s work. The turning point came in 1995

when he began to lobby to be sent to Calcutta, the site of

Ross’s discoveries: he was particularly intent on getting

there before August 20, the day that Ross had designated

‘World Mosquito Day’, to commemorate one of his findings.

Unfortunately LifeWatch had no office in Calcutta: nor

would it have been possible to justify the expense of

opening one purely for Murugan’s sake. However, when it

became clear that Murugan was determined to go even if it

cost him his job, various people within the organization put

their heads together and manufactured a small research

project that would allow him to spend some time in Calcutta,

although on a greatly reduced salary. To Murugan’s great

delight, the paperwork was concluded just in time to allow

him to reach Calcutta on August 20 1995.

Later, after Murugan’s ‘disappearance’, there were those

who sought to blame Life Watch for allowing him to go at

all. However, the fact was that the organization had done

everything in its power to dissuade him. Representatives of

the Personnel Department, for example, held several

meetings with him in July 1995, shortly before his departure,

trying to argue him out of pursuing this project. But by this

time the plan had become such an idée fixe that in all

likelihood nobody could have dissuaded Murugan from

following the course he had decided upon.

‘It is unnecessary therefore’, the article continued, ‘to

seek to blame Murugan’s well-wishers at LifeWatch for the

sad events of August 1995: it would be more appropriate to

join them in grieving for the loss of an irreplaceable friend.’

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eight

THE TORRENTIAL downpour had now thinned to a gentle

drizzle. Murugan made his way quickly out of the premises

of Rabindra Sadan, to the traffic-clogged edge of Lower

Circular Road. Ignoring the beleaguered policeman on the

traffic island, he stepped straight into the flow and marched

right through, holding up a hand to ward off the oncoming

cars and buses, apparently oblivious to their screeching

brakes and blaring horns.

The pavement on the other side was jammed with

pedestrians. Murugan was almost swept off his feet by the

onrush of people heading towards Harish Mukherjee Road

and P. G. Hospital. No sooner had he managed to fall in step

with the crowd than he heard a voice calling out to him. He

came to a sudden halt only to find himself pushed ahead by

the relentless flow of pedestrians.

He threw a quick glance over his shoulder as he was

propelled forward. He heard the shout again: ‘Hey, mister,

where you going?’ Sure enough, bobbing up and down in

the torrent of people behind him was the head of a gap-

toothed, emaciated boy—a tout of some indeterminate kind,

who had accosted him earlier in the day, right outside his

guest house.

Murugan quickened his pace and the boy shouted again,

at the top of his voice: ‘Wait, mister; where you are going?’

He was wearing a discoloured T-shirt with a print of a palm-

fringed sea and the words PAT TAYA BEACH . Murugan was

dismayed to see him again, so close behind: it had taken him

the better part of an hour to shake him off earlier.

Murugan fought his way to the wall that flanked the

pavement, and waited for the boy to catch up. ‘Listen,

friend,’ he said, first in his half-remembered Bengali and then

in Hindi. ‘Stop walking behind me: you’re not going to get

anything out of me.’

The boy bared his teeth in a smile. ‘Change dollar?’ he

said. ‘Good rate.’

Murugan exploded. ‘Don’t you get it?’ he shouted. ‘How

many ways do you want me to say it: no, na, nahin, nyet,

nothing, nix. I don’t want to change dollars, and if I did

you’d be the last person on the planet I’d go to.’

Reaching into his pocket he pushed a handful of coins

into the boy’s hand. ‘That’s all you’re going to get from me,’

he said. ‘So take it and shove off.’

He ducked quickly back into the crowd, leaving the boy

staring at a palmful of coins. He was at the corner of Harish

Mukherjee Road now. Ducking down, Murugan turned the

corner and pushed himself flat against the wall. Hidden by

the fast-moving crowd, he watched his pursuer running off

in the other direction; he saw him looking around, scanning

the street. Then the boy broke away and plunged straight

into the traffic, racing towards the Victoria Memorial, in the

distance.

‘And good night to you too,’ Murugan said, stepping

back into the crowd.

The crowd thinned out after the corner. The red-brick

buildings of P. G. Hospital were on his left, well behind the

shoulder-high perimeter wall and the narrow ditch that ran

along it. He slowed his pace, watching the wall for the

memorial arch.

Then suddenly there it was, across the ditch, momentarily

spotlighted by the headlights of a passing truck: an arch

framing a rusted iron gate. At the apex was a medallion, with

Ronald Ross’s bearded head in profile. Under it, to the right,

was an inscription: In the small laboratory seventy yards to

the southeast of this gate Surgeon-Major Ronald Ross

I.M.S. in 1898 discovered the manner in which malaria is

conveyed by mosquitoes. On the left, carved in marble, were

three verses of Ross’s poem, ‘In Exile’.

Murugan ran his eyes over the familiar lines:

This day relenting God

Hath placed within my hand

A wondrous thing; and God

Be praised. At His command,

Seek ing His secret deeds

With tears and toiling breath,

I find thy cunning seeds,

O million-murdering Death.

I k now this little thing

A myriad men will save.

O death where is thy sting?

Thy victory O grave?

Ronald Ross

Murugan began to laugh. Turning around he spread his

arms out and began to declaim, from the same poem, in a

deep, gleefully stentorian voice:

‘ Half stunned I look around

And see a land of death

Dead bones that walk the ground

And dead bones underneath;

A race of wretches caught,

Between the palms of need

And rubbed to utter naught,

The chaff of human seed.’

He was stopped by the sound of hand-claps from the

other side of the wide street. ‘Very good, mister,’ a voice

called out.

Murugan dropped his arms and peered into the tree-

shaded darkness on the far side of the road. He caught a

glimpse of a printed T-shirt and a grinning, gap-toothed

face.

‘Are you following me, chaff of human seed?’ he

shouted, cupping his hands. ‘Why? Why, what’s in it for

you?’

The boy replied with a wave and darted into the traffic.

Murugan spotted a truck rumbling towards him, from the

direction of the Race Course. He waited until the truck drew

alongside, blocking him from the boy’s view. Then he

turned, pulled himself over the wall and dropped down on

the far side of the arch.

His feet landed in something soft and yielding. At first he

thought it was mud; he could feel the dampness soaking

through the soft leather of his new loafers. A moment later

the smell hit him. ‘Shit,’ he said, under his breath, looking

around.

He was in a narrow, overgrown stretch of wasteland at

the back of the hospital’s main buildings’. Facing him were a

few nondescript outhouses and a small cement structure

that housed a water-pump. In the reflected light from the

hospital’s wards, towering above, Murugan could see a

pack of dogs scavenging in an open refuse dump close by.

Shading his eyes he peered into the shadows: there was no

one in sight except for an old man, squatting against the

wall, some distance away, washing his buttocks. Heaps of

broken masonry lay in front of him. Scattered among them

were neat piles of turds, ashen in the reflected light of the

neon street lamps.

Murugan clamped a hand over his nose and flattened

himself against the wall. He heard footsteps approaching at

a run, on the other side; they stopped, receded, came back

again. He heard the boy muttering to himself then walking

off, in a hurry.

Breathing again Murugan began to move sideways,

bracing himself against the wall with his open hands.

Pushing along the wall, his left hand chanced upon the rim

of an opening in the rough brick surface. Murugan leaned

over to take a look and discovered that the opening was

actually a little alcove: or rather, a gap where a few bricks

had been removed from the back of the memorial arch.

He thrust his hand gingerly inside. It brushed against

something; a small object. His fingers closed on it and he

pulled it out. It was a little clay figurine.

Murugan held the figurine out at arm’s length, into the

dim glow of the distant street lamp. The figure was made of

painted clay, and it was small enough to fit quite easily into

the palm of his hand. It reminded him of the little images of

gods his mother had carried with her on their travels.

The central part of the figurine was a simple, semicircular

mound, crudely modelled and featureless except for two

large stylized eyes, painted in stark blacks and whites, on

the baked clay. They gave Murugan a momentary start; they

appeared luminous in the dim neon glow, staring directly up

at him, out of his open palm. They seemed to fix upon his

eyes, holding his gaze; he had to blink before he could look

away.

He turned the object around in his palm. To the right of

the mound was a tiny bird, unmistakably a pigeon, clearly

and carefully modelled—feathers, eyes and all. Growing out

of the other side of the mound was a little protuberance, like

the amputated stub of an arm. The arm had a small metal

object attached; Murugan could not tell what it was—all he

could see of it was a little metallic cylinder. He brought the

figurine closer, examining it carefully, trying to work out

what the metal object represented.

Then once again he was interrupted: ‘Mister; I find you;

what you doing here?’ The boy was peering over the wall,

his face right above Murugan’s head, laughing.

Murugan lost his temper. ‘Get out of my sight, you son of

a bitch,’ he shouted.

The boy made a leering face and wagged his head. Then

he caught sight of the figurine in Murugan’s hand. He shot

out an arm and snatched the object from Murugan.

Murugan lunged at the figurine, but his hand caught the

boy’s fist and knocked it out. It crashed to the ground, on

the other side of the wall. The boy dropped off the wall and

fell to his knees beside it.

Pulling his head up, Murugan looked over the wall. The

boy was on all fours, gathering up the pieces of broken clay.

He looked at Murugan over his shoulder and spat out a

curse.

‘You asked for it,’ Murugan said. ‘It’s not my fault.’

Keeping his back to the wall, Murugan began to move to his

left, stepping carefully over the excrement and debris. He

came to a stop at a dilapidated red-brick outhouse, built so

close to the ground that it was almost completely hidden by

the boundary wall. The structure seemed like an abandoned

shell, with branches of peepul growing out of the cracked

plaster and grinning holes marking the old windows and

doorways.

Murugan pushed his head gingerly through a gaping

window. ‘Hello,’ he called out. ‘Anyone there?’

Suddenly there was a flapping, whooshing sound and he

was hit in the face. A flock of pigeons swirled past, brushing

his face with their feathers.

Murugan threw himself back and covered his head with

his arms. A sound rang in his ears; it was only after a few

seconds had passed that he realized he had screamed. Then

he heard a pebble strike the ground, beside him. He looked

up and saw the boy, hanging over the boundary wall, his

arm flexed to throw another stone.

Murugan ducked through a passageway, into the main

drive and headed for the hospital’s gates, at a run. Several

taxis were waiting at the entrance, on Gokhale Road.

Murugan jumped into one and slammed the door. ‘Let’s go,’

he cried, ‘let’s go, move it.’

The Sikh taxi driver turned to look at him, unhurriedly.

‘Go where?’ he said, in Hindi.

‘Robinson Street,’ Murugan said, gasping breath.

‘Between Loudon and Rawdon Street.’

The driver turned the ignition key. The old Ambassador

started up with a roar and pulled slowly away.

Murugan sat crouched by the window, scanning the road

and the pavements. Seeing no sign of the boy, he sank back

into the seat. His eyes fell on his shoes; they were covered

with brown stains. He caught a whiff of a foul odour and

thrust his feet under the front seat, hoping the smell would

not reach the driver. But the odour lingered; he couldn’t rid

himself of it. He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand,

took the shoes off and dropped them out of the window.

He sank into his seat, breathing a sigh of relief. But a

moment later there was a thud on the back windshield. He

looked around just in time to see his second shoe flying

through the air. It struck the window and bounced off,

leaving a long brown stain on the glass.

The driver stuck his head out of the window and began

to shout at the boy, who was racing towards them through

the traffic. Then the lights changed, the cars behind began

to sound their horns and the taxi pulled away.

As the taxi turned into Lower Circular Road, he glanced

over at the brilliantly lit façade of the Rabindra Sadan

auditorium. He noticed two women hurrying down the stairs,

and thrust his head out of the window. The taxi was moving

a little faster now and he only had a brief glimpse of them,

heading for the gate.

He was almost certain they were the two women he’d

spoken to earlier in the evening.

■

■

■

nine

THE ARTICLE IN the LifeWatch newsletter was wrong on

one point. There was only one meeting between Murugan

and a representative of the Personnel Department before

Murugan’s departure for Calcutta.

One morning Antar arrived at his cubicle at LifeWatch’s

headquarters on West 57th Street to find a file waiting on his

screen: it contained a complete record of Murugan’s

requests for reassignment. Antar was sure that the file had

been routed to him by mistake: he was only technically a

member of Personnel; he dealt almost exclusively with

accounts. He lost no time in shooting off a query to the

Director of his department. A couple of hours later the

Director sent him a message asking him to drop by.

The Director was a serious and conscientious Swede who

never lost an opportunity to remind his staff that their real

business was caring. ‘Let’s get you away from your screen

for a bit,’ he said to Antar. ‘I’ve got a more human job for

you today.’ He called up Murugan’s file and took Antar

through it. ‘See if you can’t talk some sense into this man

Murugan: hard economic sense, I mean. Tell him about

pension schemes and medical benefits and all that sort of

thing. You’ll see from the records that this gentleman

already pays out a third of his salary in alimony: effectively

he’s not going to be earning anything if he goes off to

Calcutta on this wild-goose chase.’

Antar E-mailed Murugan that very afternoon. A couple of

days later, shortly before the lunch break, Antar heard a

loud, screeching voice echoing through the department’s

open-plan office. He knew at once who it was even though

he could not see him from his cubicle.

Murugan was carolling greetings to his acquaintances:

‘Hey there, how are you doing on this fine day? Enjoying

the low pollen count?’

Antar and his neighbour in the next cubicle exchanged

startled glances.

The voice rose several decibels: ‘Which one of you is

called Ant… Ant…?’

‘Over here,’ Antar shouted, jumping to his feet. He found

himself holding his hand aloft, like a schoolboy, so that it

peeped out over the plywood top of his cubicle.

‘Stay right where you are Ant,’ Murugan called out

cheerfully. ‘I’ll find my way to you.’

A minute later he appeared at the entrance to Murugan’s

cubicle; a dapper, pot-bellied man, in a dark three-piece suit

and a felt hat. They were about the same age, Antar

estimated; both in their early forties.

‘Hey there, Ant,’ Murugan said, beaming at him, holding

out his hand. ‘This is some heap you’ve built yourself out

here.’

Disconcerted by the man’s manner, Antar gave him a thin

smile and gestured at a chair. Pulling out a list of figures he

plunged straight into the little speech he had prepared,

explaining why a move to Calcutta would be a career

disaster.

Murugan sat through the monologue in silence, stroking

his goatee, his bright, piercing eyes fixed on Antar. When

Antar ran out of breath and paused, he gave him a nod of

encouragement.

‘Go on, Ant,’ he said, ‘I’m listening.’

Antar had saved his trump card for the last. He played it

now. ‘And have you thought about your payments?’ he

began. Halted by a momentary twinge of embarrassment, he

stopped to clear his throat. ‘Your payments to your ex-wife, I

mean?’ he said. ‘You’ll barely have enough to support

yourself if you go ahead with this.’

Suddenly Murugan leaned forward, looking into Antar’s

eyes. ‘You ever been married, Ant?’ he said.

Startled, Antar fell back in his chair. Without meaning to,

he nodded.

‘And you’re not now?’

‘No,’ said Antar.

‘Yeah.’ Murugan pursed his lips, as though confirming

something to himself. ‘I could tell.’

‘How?’

‘Just could,’ said Murugan. ‘So let’s hear it, Ant: you

paying alimony too? You seem to know a lot about the

subject.’

‘No!’ Antar said vehemently. ‘My wife died, in her first

pregnancy…’

‘That’s too bad,’ said Murugan. ‘Were you together

long?’

‘Yes.’ The directness of the question took Antar off

guard. ‘I was orphaned you see, and her family kind of

adopted me when I was in my teens, in Egypt. She was

everything to me—’ He cut himself short, flustered.

Murugan pulled a sympathetic face: ‘Shit happens.’ He

glanced at his watch and pushed his chair back. ‘Come on,

let’s go grab a bite.’

Antar’s head was reeling from the barrage of questions.

‘Grab—a—bite?’ he said, momentarily uncomprehending.

Murugan gave a hoot of laughter: ‘Get some lunch,

something to eat.’

Antar had brought his lunch with him, of course. It was

right behind him, in his briefcase; a sandwich and an apple.

He liked to have lunch in his cubicle, by himself. But he

could not bring himself to say so now.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let us go.’

Out in the corridor, on the way to the elevator, Murugan

declared cheerfully: ‘Sounds like you got a pretty raw deal,

huh?’

Trying to turn the conversation away from himself, Antar

said quickly: ‘And what about you?’

‘My divorce was pretty straightforward,’ Murugan said

offhandedly as they joined the lunchtime queue at the

elevator bank. His voice seemed to grow louder as they

stepped into the elevator. ‘The whole thing was a mistake—

arranged by our families. Didn’t last but a couple of years.

No kids.’

Murugan gave a screech of laughter that went spiralling

tinnily around the elevator. ‘How did we get on this subject

anyway?’ he said. ‘Oh yeah, you were telling me I’m going

to be a deadbeat divorce if I go to Calcutta.’

Antar intercepted a stare from an acquaintance and

dropped his eyes. He kept them down until they stepped off

the elevator.

They went to a small Thai restaurant, right around the

corner from the building where LifeWatch had its offices.

The waiter took their orders, and a moment of constrained

silence followed. It was Antar who spoke first. ‘Why are

you so determined to go to Calcutta?’ he blurted out

suddenly. He regretted it once he’d said it; he was not in the

habit of inviting confidences from strangers, especially

someone as loud and brash as this. Yet, appalled as he was

by the man’s voice and manner, he couldn’t help feeling an

inexplicable sense of kinship with him.

Murugan smiled. ‘Shall I tell you why I have to go, Ant?’

he said. ‘It’s simple: I don’t know how many years I have

left, and I want to do something with my life.’

‘Do something with your life?’ Antar said, on a note of

derision. ‘What you’ll be doing is throwing away all your

prospects—at LifeWatch, anyway.’

‘But look at it this way,’ said Murugan. ‘You could find a

thousand people—no, two thousand… maybe ten—who

could do what I’m doing now. But you won’t find another

person alive who knows more than I do about the subject I

specialize in.’

‘And that is?’ Antar asked politely.

‘Ronald

Ross,’

said

Murugan.

‘Nobel-winning

bacteriologist. Take it from me, as far as the subject of

Ronnie Ross goes, I’m the only show in town.’

A look of some scepticism must have crossed Antar’s

face, for Murugan added quickly: ‘I know it sounds like I’m

bragging, but it’s not really that big a claim. Ross wasn’t a

Pasteur or a Koch: he just didn’t have as much variety to his

game. His stuff on malaria was about the only cutting-edge

work he ever did. And even that was a freak one-off thing.

Do you know how long it took him?’

Antar answered with a polite shake of his head.

‘The actual research, the hands-on stuff, took just three

years, door to door; three years spent entirely in India. He

kicked off in the summer of 1895, in a little hole-in-the-wall

army camp in a place called Secunderabad and ran the last

few yards in Calcutta in the summer of 1898. And for only

about half that time was he actually in the lab. The rest went

into cleaning up epidemics, playing tennis and polo, going

on holidays in the hills, that kind of stuff. The way I figure it,

he spent about five hundred days altogether working on

malaria. And you know what? I’ve tracked him through

every single one of those five hundred days: I know where

he was, what he did, which slides he looked at; I know what

he was hoping to see and what he actually saw; I know who

was with him, who wasn’t with him. It’s like I was looking

over his shoulder. If his wife would have asked, “How was

your day, honey?” I could have told her.’

‘And how did you get to learn about all that?’ said Antar,

raising an eyebrow.

‘Look,’ said Murugan, ‘the great thing about a guy like

Ronald Ross is that he writes everything down. You’ve got

to remember: this guy’s decided he’s going to rewrite the

history books. He wants everyone to know the story like

he’s going to tell it; he’s not about to leave any of it up for

grabs, not a single minute if he can help it. He’s figured on a

guy like me coming along some day and I’m happy to oblige.

If you think about it, it’s not a whole lot to know about: five

hundred days of a guy’s life.’

‘Was Ross really that interesting?’ Antar said.

‘Interesting?’ Murugan gave a shout of laughter. ‘Yes

and no. He was a genius, of course, but he was also a

dickhead.’

‘Yes,’ said Antar, ‘go on, I’m listening.’

‘OK,’ said Murugan, ‘picture this: here’s this guy, a real

huntin’, fishin’, shootin’ colonial type, like in the movies;

plays tennis and polo and goes pig-sticking; good-looking

guy, thick moustache, chubby pink cheeks, likes a night out

on the town every now and again; drinks whisky for

breakfast some mornings; wasn’t sure what he wanted to do

with his life for the longest time; sort of thought he’d like to

write novels; had a go, wrote a couple of medieval

romances; then said to himself, “Hell, this isn’t working out

like I thought, let’s try writing poems instead.” But that

didn’t pan out either and then Pa Ross, who’s this big

general in the British Army in India, says to him, “And what

the fuck do you think you’re doing, Ron? Our family’s been

out here in India since it was invented and there’s no

goddam service here doesn’t have a Ross in it, you name it,

Civil Service, Geological Service, Provincial Service, Colonial

Service… I’ve heard of them all, but no one told me about no

Poetical Service yet. You need to dry out your sinuses, kid,

and I’m going to tell you where you’re going to do it so

listen up. There’s this outfit that’s short on Rosses right

now: the Indian Medical Service. It’s got your name on it,

written so large you can read it from a space shuttle. So kiss

goodbye to this poetry shit, poetry just don’t cut it.”

‘So young Ronnie snaps off a salute and scoots over to

medical school in London. He coasts for the next few years,

writing a few poems, doing gigs on open-mike nights,

dreaming up outlines for his next novel. Medicine is the last

thing on his mind, but he gets into the Indian Medical

Service anyway and the next thing you know he’s back in

India toting a stethoscope and carving up vets. So he coasts

again, a couple of years, playing tennis, riding, same old

same old. And then one morning he gets out of bed and

finds he’s been bitten by the science bug. He’s married, he’s

got kids, he’s about to hit his midlife crisis; he should be

saving for the power lawnmower and what does he do

instead? He looks in the mirror and asks himself: “What’s

hot in medicine right now? What’s happening on the outer

edge of the paradigm? What’s going to bag me a Nobel?”

And what does the minor tell him? You got it: malaria—

that’s where it’s at this season.

‘So the bulbs go off in Ronnie’s head until he’s strung

out like the Brooklyn Bridge on a clear night: “Sure,” he

says, “why didn’t I think of it before? That’s the ticket:

malaria.”’

‘Did Ross have malaria himself?’ Antar asked.

‘He got it about halfway into his work,’ said Murugan. He

directed a sharply appraising glance at Antar. ‘Why’d you

ask? Have you ever had it yourself?’

Antar nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a long time ago, in Egypt.’

Murugan sat up. ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘The malaria

rates are pretty low in Egypt.’

‘I suppose I was an exception,’ said Antar.

‘So was yours a freak case? Or was there a localized

outbreak?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Antar shortly.

‘Do you ever get relapses?’ Murugan persisted.

‘Sometimes,’ Antar said.

‘That’s how it goes,’ Murugan said with a wry smile.

‘You think it’s gone for ever and suddenly, it’s hey, long

time no see.’

‘So you get them too!’ Antar said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Do I ever!’ Murugan laughed. ‘But you know, I don’t

worry about it too much. I guess it’s because malaria isn’t

just a disease. Sometimes it’s also a cure.’

‘A cure?’ Antar said. ‘For what?’

‘Ever heard of Julius Wagner-Jauregg?’

‘No.’

‘He won the Nobel too; for stuff he did with malaria. He

was even born the same year as Ronnie Ross, but in Austria.

He was a psychologist: had a couple of serious run-ins with

Freud. But the reason his name is up there in the bright

lights is that he discovered something about malaria that

Ross couldn’t even have begun to guess at.’

‘What?’ said Antar.

‘He discovered that artificially induced malaria could cure

syphilis—at least in the dementia paralytica stage when it

attacks the brain.’

‘It sounds incredible,’ said Antar.

‘Sure,’ said Murugan. ‘But it still got him the Nobel in

1927. Artificially induced malaria was the standard treatment

for syphilitic paresis until the forties. Fact is, malaria does

stuff to the brain that we’re still just guessing at.’

‘But to come back to Ross,’ said Antar. ‘You say he

didn’t catch malaria until he was well into his work? So what

got him interested in it, then?’

‘It was the Zeitgeist,’ said Murugan. ‘Malaria was the

cold fusion of his day; the Sunday papers were scrambling

to get it on their covers. And it figures: malaria’s probably

the all time biggest killer among diseases. Next to the

common cold it’s just about the most prevalent disease on

the planet. We’re not talking about a disease which shoots

off the charts suddenly some century like the plague or

smallpox or syphilis. Malaria’s been around since the big

bang or thereabouts, pegged at about the same level all

along. There’s no place on earth that’s off the malaria map:

Arctic circle, freezing mountaintop, burning desert, you

name it, malaria’s been there. We’re not talking millions of

cases here; more like hundreds of millions. We don’t even

know how many, because malaria’s so widespread it doesn’t

always get on the charts. And besides, it’s a master of

disguise: it can mimic the symptoms of more diseases than

you can begin to count—lumbago, the ‘flu, cerebral

haemorrhage, yellow fever. And even when it’s properly

diagnosed it’s not like quinine is always going to get you

home safe. With certain kinds of malaria you can mainline

quinine all the livelong day and come nightfall you’ll still be

gathering freezer-burn in the mortuary. It’s only fatal in a

fraction of all reported cases but when you’re dealing with

hundreds of millions, a fraction adds up to the population of

an economy-size country.’

‘So when Ross began,’ Antar said, ‘was there a new

interest in malaria?’

‘You bet,’ said Murugan. ‘The mid-nineteenth century

was when the scientific community began to wake up to

malaria. Remember this was the century when old Mother

Europe was settling all the Last Unknowns: Africa, Asia,

Australia, the Americas, even uncolonized parts of herself.

Forests, deserts, oceans, warlike natives—that stuff’s easy

to deal with when you’ve got dynamite and the Gatling gun;

chicken-feed compared to malaria. Don’t forget it wasn’t that

long ago when pretty much every settler along the

Mississippi had to take time off every other day for an attack

of the shakes. It was just as bad in the swamps around

Rome; or in Algeria, where French settlers were making a big

push. And this was just about the time that new sciences

like bacteriology and parasitology were beginning to make a

splash in Europe. Malaria went right to the top of the

research agenda. Governments began to pour money into

malaria research—in France, in Italy, in the US, everywhere

except England. But did Ronnie let that stop him? No, sir, he

just stripped off and jumped right in.’

Antar frowned: ‘You mean Ross didn’t have any official

support from the British government?’

‘No, sir: the Empire did everything it could to get in his

way. Besides, when it came to malaria the British were non-

starters: the front-line work was being done in France and

the French colonies, Germany, Italy, Russia, America—

anywhere but where the Brits were. But you think Ross

cared? You’ve got to hand it to the guy, he had balls, that

motherfucker. There he is: he’s at an age when most

scientists start checking their pension funds; he knows

sweet fuck all about malaria (or anything else); he’s sitting

out in the boonies somewhere where they never even heard

of a lab; he hasn’t set hands on a microscope since he left

medical school; he’s got a job in this dinky little outfit, the

Indian Medical Service, which gets a couple of copies of

Lancet and nothing else, not even the Transactions of the

Royal Society of Tropical Medicine, forget about the Johns

Hopk ins Bulletin or the Annales of the Pasteur Institute.

But our Ronnie doesn’t give a shit: he gets out of bed one

sunny day in Secunderabad or wherever and says to

himself, in his funny little English accent, “Dear me, I don’t

know what I’m going to do with myself today, think I’ll go

and solve the scientific puzzle of the century, kill a few

hours.” Never mind all the heavy hitters who’re out there in

the ballpark. Forget about Laveran, forget about Robert

Koch, the German, who’s just blown into town after doing a

number on typhoid; forget about the Russian duo,

Danilewsky and Romanowsky, who’ve been waltzing with

this bug since when young Ronald was shitting himself in

his crib; forget about the Italians who’ve got a whole

goddam pasta factory working on malaria; forget about W.

G. MacCallum out in Baltimore, who’s skating on the edge of

a real breakthrough in hematozoan infections in birds; forget

about Bignami, Celli, Golgi, Marchiafava, Kennan, Nott,

Canalis, Beauperthuy; forget about the Italian government,

the French government, the US government who’ve all got a

shitload of money out there chasing malaria; forget them all.

They don’t even see Ronnie coming until he’s set to stop

the clocks.’

‘Just like that?’ said Antar.

‘That’s right. At least that’s how it began. And you know

what? He did it; he beat the Laverans and the Kochs and the

Grassis and the whole Italian mob; he beat the governments

of the US and France and Germany and Russia; he beat them

all. Or that’s the official story anyway: young Ronnie, the

lone genius, streaks across the field and runs away with the

World Cup.’

‘I take it you don’t go along with this,’ said Antar.

‘You said it, Ant. This is one story I just don’t buy.’

‘Why not?’

A waiter appeared at their table and placed bowls of soup

in front of them. Rubbing the palms of his hands together,

Murugan lowered his head into the lemon-scented cloud

that was rising from his soup bowl.

‘I take it,’ Antar persisted, ‘that you have your own

version of how Ronald Ross made his discoveries?’

‘That’s certainly one way of putting it,’ said Murugan.

‘So what’s your version of the story?’ said Antar.

‘I’ll tell you what, Ant,’ said Murugan, picking up his

spoon. ‘I’ll read you all three volumes some day when we’re

on an around-the-world cruise: you buy, I’ll talk.’

Antar laughed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What about a couple

of pages, just for starters?’

Murugan lifted a long, dripping braid of noodles to his

mouth with a pair of chopsticks. He slurped them up with a

loud vacuuming sound and sat back in his chair, dabbing a

paper napkin on his goatee. There was a brief pause and

when he spoke next his voice was soft and matter of fact.

‘Can I ask you a philosophical question, Ant?’

Antar shifted in his chair. ‘Go ahead,’ he said, ‘although I

should tell you I’m not one for big questions…’

‘Tell me, Ant,’ Murugan said, fixing his piercing gaze

upon Antar’s face. ‘Tell me: do you think it’s natural to want

to turn the page, to be curious about what happened next?’

‘Well,’ said Antar, uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure if I know

what you mean.’

‘Let me put it like this, then,’ said Murugan. ‘Do you

think that everything that can be known should be known?’

‘Of course,’ said Antar. ‘I don’t see why not.’

‘All right,’ said Murugan, dipping his spoon in his bowl.

‘I’ll turn a few pages for you; but remember, it was you who

asked. It’s your funeral.’

■

■

■

ten

WHEN THEY WERE out of the auditorium Urmila thought

she had her chance of getting Sonali to herself. ‘Do you

have a couple of minutes?’ she began. But Sonali was

already hurrying down the driveway, towards the street.

Urmila caught up with her at the gates, at just the moment

when a burst of applause sounded inside the auditorium,

signalling the end of Phulboni’s speech.

‘I’m sorry I had to leave so early,’ Sonali said. ‘I would

have liked to stay for the rest but it’s past eight and I really

must get home now.’

‘Oh.’ Urmila made a half-hearted effort to conceal her

disappointment. ‘You have to go right this minute?’

Sonali paused. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m expecting someone.

Why?’

‘It’s just that I was hoping to talk to you,’ Urmila said.

‘About what?’

‘About him,’ said Urmila, inclining her head towards the

auditorium. ‘Phulboni.’

‘What about him?’

‘I’ve got to write an article about him,’ said Urmila. ‘And

I’ve been wondering about a couple of things. Someone told

me that you might be the person to talk to.’

‘Me?’ Sonali was taken aback. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able

to tell you very much.’

She stood undecided for a moment. Then with a glance at

her watch, she said: ‘Well, why don’t you come home with

me? We can talk until my guest comes.’

Without waiting for an answer Sonali stepped out and

flagged down a taxi. Ignoring Urmila’s protests, she bundled

her in and climbed in after her. ‘Alipore,’ she said to the

driver, and then rolled her window down as the taxi trundled

past the cool darkness of the Race Course.

Just before the Alipore Bridge the taxi ran into a traffic

jam and came squealing to a halt. Sonali turned to Urmila.

‘What was it you wanted to ask me about?’ she said, her

voice rattling to the rhythm of the idling car.

‘About some of Phulboni’s early stories,’ Urmila said.

Sonali raised her eyebrows. ‘But why me?’ she said.

’Who told you to ask me, of all people?’

Urmila hesitated. ‘Someone I know,’ she said.

‘Who?’ said Sonali.

‘You know her too,’ said Urmila. ‘Or at least you did. She

talks about you a lot, anyway.’

‘Who is it?’ said Sonali. ‘You’re making me curious.’

‘Mrs Aratounian.’ Urmila said the name with a warm

smile.

‘Mrs Aratounian?’ cried Sonali. ‘You mean Mrs

Aratounian of Dutton’s Nursery on Russell Street?’

‘Yes,’ said Urmila. ‘The same Mrs Aratounian. Do you

remember her?’

Sonali nodded, but the truth was that she hadn’t seen

Mrs Aratounian in years and was just barely able to recall a

neat, rather forbidding woman, dressed in a black skirt and

gold-rimmed glasses. She’d always reminded Sonali of the

Irish nuns at her convent school: she had just that kind of

ringing voice and abrupt manner. She was from an Armenian

family that had been in Calcutta for generations, Sonali

remembered: they’d owned Dutton’s Nursery for ever.

‘My God!’ she exclaimed… ‘Dutton’s! It must be years

since I last went there.’

‘But you know,’ Urmila said, in a rush, ‘the first time I

ever saw you was at Dutton’s.’

‘At Dutton’s?’ Sonali glanced at her in astonishment.

‘Why, I didn’t know we’d met before I started working at

Calcutta.’

‘We didn’t exactly meet.’ Urmila was embarrassed now;

she wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

It had happened years ago: Urmila was in her last year in

school and the reason she was at Dutton’s Nursery that

morning was that she was the student representative on the

Grounds and Gardens Committee. She’d been taken there by

the teacher-members of the committee, in the school van.

She was nervous: Mrs Aratounian scared her with her

flinty voice and her drill-sharp eyes. The last time she was at

the Nursery she’d put out a hand to touch a rose, when she

felt someone’s gaze boring into her. She spun guiltily

around, snatching back her hand, and sure enough, Mrs

Aratounian was watching her from the far side of the room.

‘That’s a plant, not a dog,’ she said, with a glint of her gold-

rimmed bifocals, ‘and the reason it has thorns is that it

doesn’t want to be petted.’ Urmila had felt so small she’d

wanted to erase herself, like a smudge of chalk.

On this occasion the visit began well. Mrs Aratounian

went out of her way to be kind. She pointed to a stand of

potted chrysanthemums and said: ‘Pick one out, dear, and

I’ll let you have it. Just this once.’

Urmila was looking over the chrysanthemums when there

was a sudden commotion at the door. She turned to see

Sonali Das walking in.

Dutton’s was full of people—it was the time of year when

everyone was buying seeds and plants. Sonali’s entrance

created a sensation: she had just published her book and her

picture was everywhere. She was dressed in a green and

white chiffon sari, with a huge pair of sunglasses pushed

back over her hair, looking every bit the film-star.

Urmila had recently seen one of her films: she watched

her open mouthed, shrinking back into the chrysanthemums,

mortified at the thought of being seen in her grimy school

uniform and her two thin braids.

While talking to Mrs Aratounian, Sonali was joined by a

tall, powerfully built man, with a massive, heavy-jawed face.

His jaw and eyebrows stood out in sharp outline, under a

head that was almost completely bald. It was evident that

the two of them had come together.

He seemed old for her, Urmila decided, but he wasn’t bad

looking, in a thuggish way. She wondered who he was.

Then the man said something to Mrs Aratounian. To

Urmila’s utter horror, Mrs Aratounian turned and pointed in

her direction, at the chrysanthemums. For a brief moment

Urmila stood undecided. By the time she had recovered, it

was too late. They were standing right in front of her and

Sonali was craning around, reaching for a flowerpot.

Urmila sidestepped quickly, ducking out of her way. But

in her hurry she jogged Sonali’s hand. The pot fell to the

ground and shattered with a terrific crash, showering the

floor with leaves, petals and earth.

Aghast, Urmila dropped to her knees. She began to

sweep up the scattered earth and pottery, keeping her eyes

on the floor, not daring to look up. She was near tears.

Then a very large pair of hands descended to the floor, in

front of her, filling her entire field of vision. The hands were

matted with thick, curly hair and the knuckles were the size

of walnuts. Distracted though she was, Urmila noticed that

one of the hands was partly paralysed, with the thumb, lying

stiffly curled against the palm. Then the hands began to help

her, awkwardly sweeping the earth together.

Urmila raised her head and found herself looking at the

man who had followed Sonali into the shop. He was staring

at her—not angrily, but with a fixed, appraising gaze.

Something about his look frightened Urmila and she

dropped her eyes.

The next thing she knew, Sonali’s arms were around her,

helping her up. ‘Poor thing,’ she was saying to Mrs

Aratounian. ‘It’s not her fault: I’ll pay.’

Urmila got a terrific scolding on the way back to school,

in the van. But soon enough her teachers lost interest in her

and began to gossip about Sonali Das and the man she was

with.

Urmila discovered to her surprise that she knew his name:

it was Romen Haldar. She’d heard him talked about at home:

he lived in a huge house just down the road from their flat.

She knew he was a wealthy builder and contractor, and that

he had a lot of influence in a major club. Her younger

brother, who dreamt of playing in the First Division, often

talked of him.

Now, recalling the incident, Urmila was able to laugh. ‘It

was years ago,’ she told Sonali. ‘I knocked a pot of flowers

out of your hand: chrysanthemums.’

‘I don’t remember,’ said Sonali.

‘Of course not,’ said Urmila. ‘But you were very nice

about it. So was Mrs Aratounian. She became a real friend

after that.’

‘So you know Mrs Aratounian well?’ Sonali asked.

‘I visit her occasionally,’ Urmila said, ‘at her flat on

Robinson Street. She’s always been very kind to me. She’s

very interesting in her own crusty way. Besides, her flat is

so peaceful—with all those plants and comfortable chairs

and sofas. It’s nice to escape from the magazine every once

in a while. I drop in whenever I can.’

‘I heard Mrs Aratounian retired and sold Dutton’s,’

Sonali said. ‘Must have made a fortune, with that location.’

‘I don’t know,’ Urmila said. ‘I never asked. But actually I

think she’s having trouble making ends meet, now that she’s

retired. She’s always thinking up little schemes for making

extra money. “I’ve been in business all my life,” she says—

you know how she talks—“and as sure as an egg’s an egg,

I’m not going to stop now.”’

Sonali laughed. ‘What are her schemes?’ she said.

‘Her latest is that she’s going to take in paying guests

and turn her flat into a businessman’s guest house.’

‘No!’ Sonali exclaimed in disbelief.

‘Yes,’ Urmila continued. ‘She’s even stuck a board on her

door. The trouble is, no one ever sees it unless they’re

going up the stairs, so she hasn’t had any guests yet.’

‘What made her think of it?’ Sonali asked.

‘I asked her that,’ said Urmila. ‘And she said she got the

idea because an old house on the other side of Robinson

Street is being turned into a hotel, by a developer. She said:

“The blackguard actually has the cheek to hang a sign on

the lawn. Plain as a wart on the nose. ‘Site for the Robinson

Hotel.’ If he can do it, why can’t I?”’

And then suddenly Urmila froze in an attitude of dismay

with her hands clapped over her open mouth.

Sonali smiled, and took a cigarette out of her handbag…

‘She meant Romen, I suppose?’ she said drily, flicking open

her lighter. ‘Romen showed me that house on Robinson

Street the other day. He’s very proud of it; he’s actually

going to rebuild the place.’ She puffed at the flame and

allowed the smoke to curl slowly out of her pursed lips.

Urmila began to mumble hurried apologies.

Sonali laughed: ‘Don’t worry. I really don’t mind what

people say about Romen. You should hear how the wags go

on about him at his club. Of course the Calcutta Wicket Club

is the last place in the world where wags still survive and

live to say waggish things. You should hear them when they

start on Romen.’

She gave Urmila a reassuring pat on the arm. ‘Have you

ever met Romen?’ she said.

‘No.’ Urmila shook her head. ‘I just saw him that one time,

at Dutton’s, with you.’

‘I think you’d like him,’ Sonali said. ‘He’s had an

extraordinary life, you know.’

‘Really?’ Urmila said in a noncommittal voice. She

remembered hearing that Romen Haldar had started with

nothing; that he’d arrived at Calcutta’s Sealdah Station

without a coin in his pocket.

Sonali nodded. ‘You’ll see,’ she said. ‘He’s not at all the

person people make him out to be. You’ll meet him tonight:

it’s him I’m waiting for. He said he’d come over this

evening.’

The taxi stopped at a pair of heavy steel gates. Sonali

began to fumble in her handbag, looking for money to pay

the driver.

A uniformed chowkidar stepped out of a booth. He took a

careful look before allowing the taxi to enter the exclusive

residential complex. There were four blocks of flats in the

estate, set well apart, each at an angle to the others, so that

every veranda looked out on its fair share of Alipore’s

greenery.

As the taxi swung around the complex, Sonali glanced at

one of the estate’s parking areas. Urmila followed her eyes

to a discreet little sign hanging over an empty spot. It said:

Reserved, R. Haldar.

Sonali sighed. ‘Romen isn’t here yet,’ she said. ‘We can

talk until he comes.’

■

■

■

eleven

SCRIBBLING A DATE on the restaurant’s brightly coloured

paper napkin, Murugan placed it before Antar.

‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘It’s May 1895. We’re in the

military hospital in Secunderabad, it’s so hot the floors are

shimmering, no fans, no electricity, a roomful of jars, all

neatly stacked up on shelves, a desk with a straight-backed

chair, a single microscope with slides scattered about, one

guy, in uniform, hunched over the microscope and a swarm

of orderlies buzzing around him. That’s Ronnie and the other

guys are the chorus line, or so Ronnie thinks anyway. “Do

this,” he says and they do it. “Do that,” he says and they

scramble. That’s what he’s grown up with, that’s what he’s

used to. Mostly he doesn’t even know their names, hardly

even their faces: he doesn’t think he needs to. As for who

they are, where they’re from and all that stuff, forget it, he’s

not interested. They could be buddies, they could be

cousins, they could be cell-mates; it would be all the same to

Ronnie.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Antar interrupted. ‘May 1895? So Ronald

Ross is at the beginning of his malaria research?’

‘That’s right,’ said Murugan. ‘Ronnie’s just got back

from a vacation in England. While he was over there, he met

with Patrick Manson, in London.’

‘Patrick Manson?’ Antar raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you

mean the Manson of elephantiasis?’

‘That’s the man,’ said Murugan. ‘Manson’s one of the

all-time greats; he’s lived in China so long he can skin a

python with chopsticks; he’s the guy who wrote the book

on filaria, the bug that causes elephantiasis. Now he’s back

in England where he’s become the Queen’s head honcho in

bacteriological research. Doc Manson wants to get the

malaria prize—for Britain, he says, for the Empire: fuck those

Krauts and Frogs and Wops and Yanks. He may be a Scot

but come gametime he roots for Queen and Country: you

don’t have to sell him on how no Scotsman ever saw a finer

sight than the London turnpike: he’s bought it already.’

‘If I remember correctly,’ Antar said, ‘Manson proved

that the mosquito was the vector for filaria. Am I right?’

‘Right,’ said Murugan. ‘Now he’s got a hunch that the

mosquito has something to do with the malaria bug too. He

doesn’t have time to do the work himself so he’s looking for

someone to carry the torch for Queen and Empire. Guess

who walks in? Ronnie Ross. Trouble is Ronnie’s not exactly

a front runner at this point. In fact the century’s biggest

breakthrough in malaria research has happened recently but

it’s passed Ronnie by. Way back in the 1840s a guy called

Meckel found microscopic granules of black pigment in the

organs of malaria patients—black spots, some round, some

crescent shaped, tucked inside tiny masses of protoplasm.

For forty years no one can figure out what this stuff is. The

breakthrough comes in 1880: Alphonse Laveran, a French

army surgeon in Algeria, runs out to get some lunch, leaving

a plate cooking under his ‘scope. He gets back from his

hickory-grilled merguez and guess what? One of those

crescent-shaped granules is moving. He sees it beginning to

jive, turning into a miniature octopus, throwing out

tentacles, shaking the whole cell.

‘So Laveran puts two and two together: hey, this thing

moves, it’s a bug. He faxes the Academy of Medicine in

Paris; tells them he’s found the cause of malaria and it’s a

critter, a protozoan—an animal parasite. But Paris doesn’t

buy it. Pasteur’s the boss out there and he’s sent the smart

money chasing after bacteria. No one buys Laveran’s

protozoan critter: it’s like he said he found the yeti. Some of

the biggest names in medicine get busy refuting

“Laveranity”. The only converts are the Italians: they

become born-again Laveranites. In 1886 Camillo Golgi shows

that Laveran’s parasite grows inside the red blood cell,

eating its host and shitting black pigment; that the pigment

collects in the centre while the bug begins to divide; he

demonstrates that the recurrence of malarial fevers is linked

to this pattern of asexual reproduction.

‘Ronnie’s a wallflower while this party’s heating up. He’s

on the anti-Laveran bench. He thinks Laveran’s bug doesn’t

exist: he’s spent the last several months trying to catch a

glimpse of it and hasn’t succeeded. He’s even published an

article trying to prove that Laveran was hallucinating. The

first time Ronnie ever sees the bug is in Manson’s lab. He

converts, and Manson sends him hustling back to India to

look for the vector.’

Antar broke in: ‘So it was Manson who was responsible

for conceiving of the connection between malaria and

mosquitoes?’

‘It wasn’t exactly a new idea,’ said Murugan. ‘Most

cultures that had to deal with malaria knew there was some

connection.’

‘But,’ Antar persisted, ‘you’re saying it’s Manson who

first gave Ross the idea?’

‘You could say Manson pointed in the general direction,’

said Murugan. ‘Except that he sent him down the scenic

route. He had this screwball theory that the malaria bug was

transmitted from mosquito to man via drinking water. His

plan was to get Ronnie to do the grunt work on this theory

of his.’

‘And Ross believed in this theory?’

‘You bet.’

‘So what happened?’ said Antar.

‘OK, we’re back in 1895, right? Ross can’t wait to get

started on Doc Manson’s mosquito-juice theory. He gets off

the ship at Madras and takes a train up to join his regiment,

the 19th Madras Infantry. They’re stationed in a

neighbourhood called Begumpett in Secunderabad. On his

way up Ronnie sticks needles into anything that moves.

When he pulls into Begumpett he begins to offer money for

samples of malarial blood—real money, one rupee per prick!

Think about it. This is 1895; one rupee can buy a family of

four enough rice to last a month. There’s so much malaria in

this place, the mosquitoes are doing double shifts and can’t

keep up. And here’s Ronnie willing to pay real money for a

few drops of malarial blood, and he can’t find a single taker.

Someone’s put out the word that this weird doctor’s blown

into town and he gets his rocks off putting naked guys into

bed with mosquitoes. No one’s going near him; they’re

crossing the street to get away. Suddenly Ronnie finds

himself starring in a bad-breath commercial: every time he

steps out on Main Street, Begumpett, it’s empty.

‘Then suddenly his luck changes. On May 17 1895, just

when it begins to look really hopeless, he gets his first

perfect case of malaria—a patient called Abdul Kadir.

Ronnie goes into high gear: he strips Abdul Kadir, shoves

him into a bed, drapes a wet mosquito net over him and

releases a test-tube full of mosquitoes into it. Next morning

he harvests his crop and suddenly Ronnie’s laboratory is

the happening place in Begumpett. Until then he’s observed

only two of the flagellate forms of the parasite. On May 18

he flattens one of Abdul Kadir’s mosquitoes (mosquito

number 18) and he finds sixty parasites in a single field. He’s

so excited he does back-flips all the way to his desk. He’s

found a “wonder case” he writes Doc Manson. That’s just

the beginning. The first time Ronnie sees the crescent-

sphere transformation of the parasite is on June 26 1895, in

Abdul Kadir’s blood. Over the next couple of months Abdul

Kadir’s blood guides him through all the critical phases of

his research.’

‘Can a single case make that much difference?’ said

Antar.

‘Ronnie thought so,’ said Murugan. ‘He was convinced

that Abdul Kadir was crucial to his work. He’d looked at a

fair number of blood samples already but none of them ever

showed him what Abdul Kadir’s did. You’d think a bug like

the malaria parasite wouldn’t look for any teacher’s pets, but

maybe it doesn’t work that way. Maybe it shows itself more

clearly in certain cases. That’s what Ronnie thought,

anyway. He became hooked on Abdul Kadir and his blood.

Days when Abdul Kadir’s parasites went into remission

Ronnie was climbing the walls. “Alas! the wonder case

which fortune has sent me is drying up”, he wrote Doc

Manson on May 22. The dickhead had an ego so big he

thought Fortune was putting him on its cover. He clearly

knew that Abdul Kadir was a special case. But he never

stopped to ask himself how come this guy just walked

through the door when he needed him most. He thought it

was just luck.’

‘Let me be clear about this,’ said Antar. ‘Are you

suggesting that Abdul Kadir’s arrival at the hospital on May

17 wasn’t just coincidence?’

‘You’ve got to wonder,’ said Murugan. ‘Look at it this

way: Ross knows no one else will come near him even when

he doubles or triples his one-rupee per prick rate; on July 17

he writes Doc Manson: “The bazaar people won’t come to

me even though I offer what is enormous payment to them. I

offer two and three rupees for a single finger prick and much

more if I find crescents—they think it is witchcraft.” But

Ronnie never stops to ask himself: why’s this guy Abdul

Kadir here, if no one else is? How come he doesn’t think this

is witchcraft? What makes him so special? Where’s he from?

What’s he doing here? What’s his story? We’re not talking

deep therapy: just plain, everyday curiosity. But Ronnie

keeps all his curiosity for the life cycle of the malaria

parasite; about the life cycles of its hosts he couldn’t care

less.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’ Antar said sharply.

‘I’m not suggesting anything at this point,’ said

Murugan. ‘I’m just giving you the facts and the

chronology.’

‘All right,’ said Antar. ‘Go ahead.’

‘OK,’ said Murugan. ‘We fast forward to the week after

Abdul Kadir’s arrival: May 25 1895. Doc Manson thinks

Ronnie’s getting sidetracked, so he’s written to remind him

of his theory: that “the beast in the mosquito… gets to man

in mosquito dust”. He wants Ronnie to make a cocktail from

dead mosquitoes and feed it to someone.

‘Ronnie gets out his glasses and starts mixing. Trouble is,

he hasn’t got anyone to give it to: can’t find anyone fool

enough to volunteer. Same old story: Ronnie’s in his lab in

Begumpett, all dressed up and nowhere to go.

‘And what do you know? Ronnie gets lucky once again.

Or maybe it’s not just luck; maybe he left Doc Manson’s

letter out on his desk and someone read it. Maybe. Anyway,

on May 25 1895, at exactly 8 P.M., a guy called Lutchman

walks into Ronnie’s life. He volunteers to drink Ronnie’s

cocktail. Ronnie pops the corks and breaks out the mosquito

margarita.

‘This Lutchman’s a “healthy looking young fellow”

Ronnie notices: just the guinea pig he’s been looking for. He

explains the experiment to Lutchman and hands him the

dead-mosquito concoction. Lutchman makes like he doesn’t

already know what it is, and swigs it. Ronnie’s a little

anxious but he doesn’t let on. All he knows about Lutchman

is that he’s a “dhooley-bearer”: in other words the British

government pays him to shovel shit. Ronnie knows Her

Imperial Majesty wouldn’t be too pleased about this little

experiment of his if she got to hear of it up in her castle on

London Bridge or wherever. Later he covers his tracks by

writing Doc Manson: “Don’t for heaven’s sake mention

Lutchman at the British Medical Association… he is a

government servant. To give a government servant fever

would be a crime!”

‘Lutchman has a fever next morning: 99.8 at 8 A.M.

(“Looking ill”, Ronnie notes). Looks like it’s time for Doc

Manson to jump out of his bathtub; maybe malaria really is

spread through mosquito-dust. Ronnie gets ready to pop

the corks; he’s about to call his agent. But then comes the

letdown. Young Lutchman doesn’t just look healthy; he is

healthy. He’s allergic to mosquito-dust, is all. A day later

he’s so fit he could run the Begumpett marathon: no sign of

malaria in his blood. That’s the end of the line for the

mosquito-dust theory. Ronnie’s free to go back to Abdul

Kadir again: he’s been headed off at the pass.’

‘Wait, wait,’ Antar broke in. ‘I want to be clear about this.

Are you arguing that Lutchman was sent to Ross’s lab

specifically in order to disprove Manson’s theory?’

‘I’m not arguing anything,’ said Murugan. ‘Just taking

the facts as they come. And the facts are these: Ronnie’s

been working on the malaria bug for about a month when

Abdul Kadir and Lutchman walk into his life. Ronnie hasn’t

made a secret of what he’s doing: he’s put the word out

about needing malaria patients. If someone was watching—

let’s just say if—if someone was watching, if someone was

looking for a research scientist to do certain kinds of

experiments, then this is when they would have picked up

the buzz. So this someone, who’s watching carefully, maybe

reading Ronnie’s lab notes and his letters to Doc Manson,

this someone decides, OK, it’s time to get a new player in

place. The first thing they’ve got to do is to make sure

Ronnie doesn’t get any patients. So they spread the word

about witchcraft; it flies through the bazaar; Ronnie

becomes the bogeyman of Begumpett.

‘By mid-May they know Ronnie’s getting desperate, no

patients, no parasites, no nothing. He can’t get anyone to

come to his parties and he can’t figure out why. This is

when they send him Abdul Kadir who’s got industrial-size

parasites; they hold Ronnie’s hand as he puts his first twos

and twos together; they’re happy, everything’s on

schedule, they’re leading Ronnie exactly where they want

him to go. And then Ronnie gets his letter from boss-man

Manson; suddenly everything flies off track. Ronnie goes

off into left field, with this mosquito-powder stuff. They go

wild: they know there’s nothing at the end of that trail; they

have to find a way to turn him back in the right direction. So

what do they do? They send him Lutchman.’

‘But why Lutchman?’ said Antar.

‘Let me put it like this,’ said Murugan, ‘whoever picked

Lutchman knew exactly what they were doing. For one thing,

they knew enough about microscopy to make sure that he

didn’t have any malaria parasites in his blood. Ronnie was

being second guessed here. Somebody had figured out what

was going to happen if Ronnie got a positive result after

feeding Lutchman mosquito water. He was going to link the

parasites to Doc Manson’s theory and bingo! there goes the

schedule. Months, maybe years could go by while Ronnie

chases around Begumpett, making the 19th Madras Infantry

drink dead mosquitoes.

‘So they stepped in; they sent him someone who didn’t

have any parasites. Remember that this is a place where the

rates of malaria in the general population are so high they’re

off the charts. It isn’t easy to find people who don’t have

any trace of the parasite in their blood. But these guys reach

into their bag, pick out someone who’s just right, and then

they send him over to Begumpett General. It works: Ronnie’s

back on track, and right on schedule. And better still they’ve

planted Lutchman exactly where they want him, where he

can run interference for the whole team.’

‘But,’ said Antar, ‘wouldn’t Ross have noticed

something so obvious?’

‘Ronnie?’ Murugan laughed. ‘Ronnie wouldn’t have

noticed if Lutchman wore it on a T-shirt. If anything but a

parasite comes calling, Ronnie’s out to lunch. The way

Ronnie tells it, he was short of help at the time, so he

decided to hire Lutchman as a houseboy-cum-gofer. All that

Ron ever knew about him was that his name was

“Lutchman” and that he was a “dhooley-bearer” by trade.

‘For the next thirty-four months—the entire period that

Ron’s working on malaria—Lutchman sticks to him like roll-

on deodorant. Starting May 1895, until July 1898, when Ron

makes his final breakthrough in Calcutta, Lutchman almost

never lets Ron out of his sight. He gets pretty good at doing

luggage impersonations. “I left Secunderabad with the

smallest possible ‘kit’,” says Ronnie, “my microscope and

my faithful Lutchman.”

‘It gets so that even Ron can’t help noticing that

Lutchman’s making some pretty important connections for

him. In April 1897, Ron takes a break in the Nilgiri Hills. He

takes Lutchman with him, to Ootacamund—“a bit of England

placed on the rounded tops of the Nilgiri Hills”, says Ron.

But Ron goes down to the Westbury coffee estate in a

valley, looking for malaria parasites, and there for the first

time in his life, he gets malaria.

‘While he’s recouping Lutchman succeeds in planting a

crucially important idea in his head: that the malaria vector

might be one particular species of mosquito. “Oh, yeah?”

says Ron; he thinks Lutchman’s full of shit: he’s been

getting a lot of negative results but it’s never occurred to

him that they might have something to do with family

differences among mosquitoes.

‘“Tell you what, Lutch,” says Ron, “next time I want your

help I’ll ask for it.” But after Lutchman plants this little seed

something begins to stir in the mud; a creature begins to

take shape in Ron’s head.

‘He starts eyeballing every different species of mosquito

he can get his hands on. Trouble is Ron doesn’t know a

goddam thing about mosquitoes: he’s never even heard the

word anopheles. He ends up chasing after Culex,

Stegomyia—going every which way but ahead. Now

Lutchman cuts in once again. On August 15 1897 he goes

into a huddle with the rest of his crew and decides

something’s got to be done double quick.

‘The way Ronnie tells it: “Next morning, 16 August, when

I went again to hospital after breakfast, the Hospital

Attendant (I regret I have forgotten his name) pointed out a

small mosquito seated on the wall with its tail stick ing

outwards.” Ronnie kills it with a puff of tobacco smoke and

cuts it open: nothing. But at last he’s on the right track:

Lutchman’s got him chasing after the real malaria vector.

Ron still doesn’t know they’re called anopheles: names them

“dappled-wing mosquitoes”.

‘Next day Lutchman makes sure Ronnie gets more of the

same: sends him a jarful of anopheles with the same

attendant. “Sure enough,” says Ronnie, “there they were:

about a dozen big, brown fellows, with fine tapered bodies

and spotted wings, hungrily trying to escape through the

gauze covering of the flask which the Angel of Fate had

given

to

my

humble

retainer!—dappled-winged

mosquitoes…” Angel of Fate my ass! With Ronnie it always

has to be some Fat Cat way up in the sky: what’s under his

nose he can’t see.

‘On August 20 1897 Ronnie makes his first major

breakthrough: he sees the placement of Plasmodium

zygotes in the stomach sac of Anopheles stephensii.

“Eureka,” he says to his diary, “the problem is solved.”

‘“Whew!” says Lutchman, skimming the sweat off his

face. “Thought he’d never get it.”

‘Later Ron asks him: “Yo, Lutch, where’d you get that hot

tip about mosquito species?” Lutchman plays dumb: “Oh,

some villagers up in them hills happened to mention it one

morning while grazing their goats.” And you know what?

Ron buys it. He thinks Lutchman hit upon this bright idea

while gambolling in the hills with happy natives.

‘What gets me about this scenario is the joke. Here’s

Ronnie, right? He thinks he’s doing experiments on the

malaria parasite. And all the time it’s him who is the

experiment on the malaria parasite. But Ronnie never gets it;

not to the end of his life.’

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twelve

THE TAXI SLOWED to a crawl on Chowringhee. Every time

Murugan turned to look back he was certain he’d spot the

boy with the printed T-shirt, weaving through the traffic at a

run. But there was still no sign of him when the taxi turned

onto Theatre Road. Murugan’s fingers began to unclench.

Halfway down Theatre Road Murugan spotted a roadside

vendor selling rubber slippers and stopped the taxi. He

spent several minutes choosing one for himself and felt

much better for it. He jumped into the taxi and waved the

driver on, impatient to get back to the guest house on

Robinson Street.

The guest house was one thing he could congratulate

himself on. It was just down the road from where Ronald

Ross had lived while he was in Calcutta. Ross had stayed at

a ‘Europeans only’ boarding house at number three; the

Robinson Guest House, where Murugan was staying, was

on the fourth floor of number twenty-two.

Murugan had found the place entirely by accident, listed

in a dog-eared typewritten roster at the airport’s tourist

information desk. The woman behind the desk had been

trying to nudge him towards five-star hotels like the Grand

and the Taj. She was doubtful when he picked the Robinson

Guest House. It was a recent entry on the list, she told him;

she couldn’t vouch for it, she didn’t know of anyone who’d

stayed there. He would do better to go to a hotel.

‘But it’s exactly where I want to be,’ Murugan said in

triumph, ‘on Robinson Street.’

He had no idea what it would be like of course, and was

pleased when Robinson Street proved to be leafy and

relatively quiet, lined with large modern blocks of flats and a

few old-fashioned colonial mansions. Number twenty-two

was one of the older buildings, a massive four-storey edifice,

studded with graceful columned balconies: probably once

the grandest building on the street, its Doric façade was now

much bruised and discoloured, its plaster blackened with

mildew.

He went up to the fourth floor in a rattling birdcage of a

lift that ascended through the centre of a winding teakwood

staircase. When the lift came to a stop Murugan stepped

gingerly onto the splintered planks of a wooden landing. A

beam of sunlight, shining through a hole in a stained-glass

window, revealed a small sign beside the tall door to his

right. It said: The Robinson Guest House. Beneath it was a

nameplate for N. Aratounian.

Dragging his leather suitcase behind him, Murugan went

to the door and rang the bell. Several minutes later he heard

footsteps on the other side. Then the door swung open and

he found himself looking at an ashen-faced, elderly woman

in a frayed dressing gown and rubber slippers. ‘Hi,’ said

Murugan, sticking out a hand. ‘Any vacancies today?’

Ignoring his hand, the woman looked him up and down,

frowning through her gold-rimmed bifocals. ‘What do you

want?’ she said, peremptorily.

‘A room,’ said Murugan. He tapped the sign by the door.

‘This is a guest house, right?’

Mrs Aratounian cocked her head so she could examine

him through the lower halves of her glasses. ‘I don’t believe

you’ve introduced yourself,’ she said.

‘The name’s Murugan,’ he said. ‘But feel free to call me

Morgan.’

Mrs Aratounian sniffed. ‘You’d better come in, Mr

Morgan,’ she said. ‘I don’t have much to offer by way of

accommodation but I’ll show you my spare room. You can

decide for yourself whether you want to stay or not.’

She led Murugan through a musty drawing room,

cluttered with doilied peg-tables, silver-framed photographs

and porcelain statuettes. Pushing open a door, she ushered

him into a large sun-lit room with very high ceilings. A

mosquito-netted bed stood marooned in the centre of the

marble floor, like a drifting raft. Directly above it, suspended

from an iron hook, hung a bulbous, long-stemmed ceiling

fan.

At the far end of the room was a small balcony. Crossing

the room, Murugan went out, leaned over the balustrade and

looked up and down the street—from the tree-lined cemetery

at the Loudon Street end, to the traffic on Rawdon Street, to

his right. Shading his eyes, he threw a glance diagonally

across at number three Robinson Street. He caught a brief

glimpse of a large, old-fashioned colonial mansion, set

within high walls and surrounded by ornamental palms. He

noticed that the front of the house was covered with

bamboo scaffolding and that the driveway was littered with

piles of bricks and cement.

Murugan pumped a fist: the location was as good as he

could have hoped. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said to Mrs Aratounian.

He dumped his luggage on the bed, took a shower and went

off to look for the Ross memorial.

That was just a few hours ago, but now, Robinson Street

looked quite different. It was packed with cars, all the way

down its length: not the usual Ambassadors and Marutis

but big expensive Japanese and German cars. The cars were

disgorging men in starched dhotis and kurtas and

bediamonded women in dazzling saris. A wedding was in

progress in the compound of a large multi-storeyed block of

flats. Music was blaring under the chequered awning of a

colourful pandal. A brilliantly illuminated archway over the

entrance bore the legend ‘Neeraj weds Nilima’, spelt out in

flowers. The whole street was lit up—all except number three

which seemed, in contrast, to be sunk in a well of darkness

although it was right next door to the wedding.

Walking towards the guest house Murugan paused at

the gateway of number three. All he could see of the

mansion was the high wall, plastered with handbills and

painted slogans; the brilliance of the surrounding lights

seemed to have deepened the shadows around the

compound. Going over to the steel gates, he saw that they

were fastened by a heavy chain. He banged on the gates,

just in case there was a watchman inside to let him in. There

was no answer. Stepping back, Murugan looked up at the

mansion’s looming silhouette: it was much more imposing

close up than he had expected.

Suddenly, there was a power cut and the lights went out,

all the way down the street. There followed an instant of

absolute stillness; everything seemed to go quiet, except the

chirruping of the cicadas in the nearby trees and the

trumpeting of conches in the far distance. In that instant

Murugan heard the soft bell-like ringing of metallic cymbals,

somewhere within the mansion. He looked up, at the

shuttered windows above, and saw a flickering orange

rectangle materialize in the darkness.

He jumped, startled, and looked again. It was merely dim

firelight, leaking through the ragged edges of a rotten

window frame. Then with a deafening roar, a generator came

on at the wedding next door, and an interrupted film-song

screeched upwards through the octaves as a record-player

came slowly back to life.

Murugan was certain now that the mansion wasn’t

empty: from the sound of it there was some kind of

ceremony under way inside. He stepped up to the gates and

rattled the chains. To his surprise, they fell away from the

gatepost: someone had forgotten to lock them.

Murugan pushed the gate open and stepped in. It was

dark but his keychain had a small flashlight attached. He

took it out, switched it on and shone it ahead. The beam lit

upon heaps of bricks and cement, lying in the driveway.

There was a colonnaded portico at the apex of the curved

drive, covered with a net of bamboo scaffolding. Murugan

could see a doorway beyond, leading into the pitch-dark

interior of the house.

Bits of grit and cement lodged in Murugan’s rubber

sandals as he walked up the driveway. He shook them out

and went up to the portico. It led into a vast hallway. He

pointed his flashlight into the darkness. The beam skimmed

over piles of mattresses and mosquito nets, stacked neatly

in the corners.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted:

‘Anyone in?’ His voice was no match for the deafening roar

of the nearby generator. He looked around, following the

uneasy shadows that skimmed over the cavernous darkness

of the hallway. Then his ears picked up a sound, a dull

pounding, like a drum. It seemed to be somewhere within the

house, but it was hard to be sure because of the generator

and the blaring loudspeakers.

He was about to go further into the hallway when a

second beam of light appeared in the doorway. He heard an

angry voice shouting: ‘Who is that? Kaun hai? What are

you doing here?’

He spun around and his flashlight fell on a man in a

Nepali cap, running towards him, gesturing angrily with a

chowkidar’s nightstick.

Murugan gave him a two-fingered salute, affecting a

cockiness he did not feel. ‘Just looking around,’ he said.

The Nepali watchman shook his stick under Murugan’s

nose, turned him around and began to push him down the

steps of the portico.

‘Just taking a look,’ Murugan said mildly. ‘I didn’t touch

a thing.’

The watchman launched into a long tirade; Murugan

could only catch snatches of it: he was telling him that no

one was allowed in, there was construction going on inside.

Halfway down the driveway, the watchman reached up

and pointed angrily at a large tin signboard. It was nailed

into the trunk of a tree, beside the driveway. Murugan was

surprised that he had missed it on his way in. It said: Site for

the Robinson Hotel: private property; no trespassing;

proprietor and developer Romen Haldar.

Murugan shook his arm free and went over to take a

closer look. The watchman followed close behind, his voice

growing louder.

Murugan turned on him suddenly. ‘Who’s that?’ he said.

‘Who is Romen Haldar?’

The watchman paid no attention to his question. He took

hold of his elbow, jerked him sideways and began pushing

him towards the gate. Murugan caught a glimpse of the hilt

of a sheathed kukri, sticking out of the top of his trousers.

As the watchman pulled the gate open, Murugan turned

to take a last look, shining the beam of his flashlight into the

debris-strewn garden. It fell upon a clothes line, strung

between the trunks of two palms. Hanging amongst the

dhotis, underwear and saris was a T-shirt with a print of

palm trees and a beach.

Then the watchman gave him a shove and slammed the

gates shut.

■

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thirteen

ANTAR POURED Murugan another cup of the restaurant’s

hot green tea. ‘Do you have any theories about who

Lutchman really was?’

‘I’ve got some leads,’ said Murugan. ‘Too many, maybe.

As I see it, he was all over the map, changing names,

switching identities. My suspicion is that he was the point-

man for whoever was the real brain behind the scheme.’

‘I see,’ said Antar. ‘But do you know anything at all

about him apart from what Ross had to say?’

‘As a matter of fact I do,’ said Murugan. ‘There’s a

reference to him in a diary.’

‘Whose diary?’ said Antar.

‘It’s like this,’ said Murugan. ‘There was this one guy we

know about who once spent a weekend in the house that

Ron lived in, in Secunderabad. Lutchman was part of the

household too: in fact he was almost like family for Ron.’

‘Go on.’

‘Remember,’ said Murugan, ‘that by the time Ron starts

working on malaria he’s a happily married man with a couple

of kids. But he’s also an army officer, working under military

conditions of service. That means that while he’s frying in

the Secunderabad heat, his wife and kids are living up in the

hills, with a parallel army of British military wives.

‘Ron gives his extra-scientific life in Secunderabad

exactly two sentences in his Memoirs: “On the 23rd [of April

1895] I left for Secunderabad… and I lived there in a

bungalow en garçon, with Captain Thomas, the Adjutant,

and Lieut. Hole, both first-rate fellows. We had our mess,

and there was the Secunderabad Club, where we played golf

and tennis; but I kept no ponies, as I expected to be put

upon special malaria work at any time.”

‘You don’t have to break a sweat trying to imagine Ron’s

set-up in Secunderabad: it’s straight out of one of those

BBC rent-a-serials: sprawling colonial bungalow; white-

washed walls, mile-high ceilings, cool, dark interiors,

elephants parked in the driveway, turbaned servants

salaaming the sahibs, doped-out punkahwallahs stirring the

air with palm-leaf fans, polo ponies, tennis rackets,

cummerbunds, the whole fucking paratha.

‘He calls it a bungalow, but don’t let him fool you: this

place has a couple of dozen rooms, and half an acre of

garden. Then there are the servants’ quarters, way out back,

where you can hardly see them: a long, low line of rooms.

The rooms are pretty small, but some of them have six or

seven people living inside and some have whole families in

residence. This is where Lutchman moves in, exactly a

month after Ron arrives in Secunderabad. But Lutchman’s

quite high up in the pecking order: he’s been personally

selected by the big doctor sahib. He gets a room to himself.

He moves in all his stuff and gets nicely settled in.

‘To Ron this bungalow-shit is pretty routine; he hardly

notices it: ho hum another day. If he wasn’t living like this

out here in Secunderabad he would be doing the same

somewhere else. Around the world there are thousands of

British army officers who are living exactly this way—in

South Africa, Malaysia, Singapore, Kenya, you name it.

Most of them are dickheads who’d believe you if you told

them that Plasmodium was Julius Caesar’s middle name. It

just so happens that in this particular bungalow in

Secunderabad there’s this one guy who’s doing world-class

science, and who’s so caught up in what he’s doing he

hardly notices whether there’s anything happening around

him—and there is, there’s a lot happening around him, only

the stupid son-of-a-bitch is such a fucking genius he

doesn’t know.

‘And then one day this other guy arrives to spend the

weekend. His name is J. W. D. Grigson; he’s just out of

Cambridge and he’s joined an outfit called the Linguistic

Survey of India. Twenty years down the road he’s going to

write a book called A Comparative Survey of the Phonetic

Structures of the Languages and Dialects of Eastern India.

It won’t be a best-seller but in its subject its going to

become the functional equivalent of Consumer Guide. This

Grigson’s quite a character: he’s going to die in the forties,

in northern Burma, trying to settle a tribal dispute.

‘And wherever he goes Grigson takes notes. Boy, does

he take notes: he keeps a diary, he keeps a journal. When

Ypsilanti College bought his collected papers in 1990 they

had to hire an eight-axle truck to ship the stuff out. There’s

nothing he doesn’t make a note of: and that means nothing.

For he’s not just into languages: he’s also seriously into

anatomy. He’ll hit upon anything that moves: if it can lift a

leg he wants to get under it. So Grigson arrives to spend a

few days at the bungalow that Ron’s living in for the

duration. It turns out he went to grade school with one of

Ron’s room-mates, Lieutenant Hole. They can’t stand the

sight of each other but their mamas have told them to be

neighbourly. So when the lieutenant hears that Grigson’s

blowing into town, he asks him if he needs a place to stay;

thinks he’ll earn a few cheap brownie points. Grigson says,

sure, what have I got to lose? He moves into the guest

bedroom for a couple of nights.

‘It doesn’t take Grigson long to figure out that something

isn’t quite kosher about this Lutchman kid; something

doesn’t fit, he doesn’t know what. All they’ve said to each

other is stuff like, “Like some tea, sir?” and, “Right on,

Lutch, start pouring,” but Grigson doesn’t miss a trick.

Something about the way Lutchman speaks makes him

curious: he begins to wonder about this guy.

‘He tries a little experiment: instead of calling him “bearer”

or “boy” or “hey you” or whatever, he suddenly calls out

“Lutchman”.

‘He notes in his diary that there’s just this instant’s delay

before Lutchman responds: just that additional nanosecond

it takes when someone responds to a name that’s not really

their own. Now Grigson’s sure his name’s not really

Lutchman: he’s changed it to make it look like he’s from the

area. Grigson’s got it figured that this is one of the

commonest names there is, except that what’s “Lutchman”

in one place is Laakhan somewhere else and Lokhkhon in

another place, and Lakshman in still another: depending on

which part of the country you’re from.

‘That evening he asks Ron, “What’s the story on this

Lutchman? Is he from around here?” Ron’s just got in from

eight straight hours staring at the lining of mosquitoes’

stomachs. He’s not in the mood for small talk. He says:

“Never asked. Guess he is from around here.”

‘“Is that right?” says Grigson. “But the way he says his

unvoiced labials and retroflex dentals, he sounds like he’s

from much further north.”

‘“You don’t say,” yawns Ron: he’s asking himself where

this nerd blew in from. “Golly gee! Think I’ll go and see if I

can get a game of tennis.” He goes off into the wings

yelling, “Tennis anyone?”

‘By this time its not just Lutchman’s retroflex dentals that

Grigson’s interested in: he’s developing a personal interest

in getting behind his labials. Next morning Lutchman brings

him his morning cup of tea while he’s still in bed. Grigson

sees his chance: OK, he says to himself, go for it. He lets his

hand linger on Lutchman’s arm as he takes his cup of tea; a

moment later he’s holding Lutchman’s hand. And now he

notices a cute little detail about Lutchman: his left hand’s

only got four fingers and no thumb. But it’s like he doesn’t

need one either: he’s got his index finger curled around so it

functions like a thumb.

‘Grigson gets a real rush from the thumb-that-wasn’t. He

gives it a rub. “Hey there, Lutch,” he says, patting his bed.

“What’s the hurry, sit yourself down here and let’s visit for

a while.” All this time Grigson’s making like he can only

speak pidgin Hindustani, like every other Englishman in

India.

‘Lutchman gives him this searching look, like he’s trying

to suss him out. That’s OK with Grigson: he’s going wow,

this new deodorant really works. Then they hear Ron,

shouting from his room: “Hey you, bearer, where’s my tea?”

‘Lutchman jumps up and sprints off. Grigson decides

he’ll try again later. He keeps an eye on Lutchman and gets a

fix on where he lives: he notes he’s got a big metal lantern

hanging in his window, back in the servants’ quarters.

‘That night there’s a party at the Secunderabad Club.

Grigson goes, but he sneaks away early; says he has a

headache; he wants to go back to the bungalow. They

arrange a ride for him; he goes back; he stuffs a couple of

pillows under his mosquito net and sneaks out.

‘It’s dark, there’s no moon. It’s the monsoon: the yard’s

turned to mud. Grigson sloshes on, towards the servants’

quarters. All he can see of the outbuildings is a long,

looming shape in the darkness. He curses under his breath

but when he’s a little closer he sees a light in a window, a

small, bright circle, glowing red. He hitches up his pyjamas

and tiptoes over to the window and knocks. Lutchman’s

face appears; he does a double take and his eyes bug out.

‘“It’s me!” says Grigson. “Just dropped by to see your

art collection.” Lutchman opens his door and Grigson steps

into the room. It’s tiny, it smells of clothes and sweat and

mustard oil. There’s a string bed in a corner, and some

clothes hanging from a line. It’s very dark. The only light in

the room comes from the lamp in the window. Now that he’s

made it all the way here he wants to get a real eyeful of this

dude. But this is no ordinary lamp. It’s big, it’s strong, it’s

sturdy, it’s got a long handle, and it’s got a small circular

pane of red glass. Grigson does a double take and then he

figures out what it is: it’s a standard-issue railway signal

lamp. The kind that’s used to stop trains at stations. It’s not

the sort of lamp you can buy at a neighbourhood store:

come to think of it, it’s probably a federal offence to have

one hanging in your window.

‘By now Grigson’s seriously turned on; he’s popping his

buttons. But at the same time he’s also bursting with

curiosity. In fact he’s not sure which is the bigger turn-on:

making out or finding out.

‘He says, in pidgin Hindustani, pointing at the lamp:

“What’s that?”

‘Lutchman plays possum. “What’s what?”

‘“That lamp up there.”

‘“Oh, that: you know what that is.”

‘“Yeah, but what do you call it?” says Grigson.

‘“What’s with these questions?” says Lutchman. He’s

speaking pidgin Hindustani too, so Grigson’s having trouble

drawing a bead on it.

‘“I’m just curious,” says Grigson.

‘“Why?” says Lutchman. “Did you come all the way out

here to ask me these dumb questions?”

‘“No,” says Grigson. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

‘“Curious about what?”

‘“About words.”

‘“You mean you want to know what it’s called?”

‘“Yeah,” says Grigson. “That’s right.”

‘“Why didn’t you say so?” says Lutchman. “It’s called a

lantern.”

‘And that was when Grigson knew. He knew because

Lutchman didn’t pronounce the word as he should have if

he really was from where he said he was. What he said was

“lalten”.

‘So Grigson gives him a smile, and says, speaking to him

in his own dialect: “So your name is really Laakhan, isn’t it?

Isn’t that how they say it where you’re from?”

‘The minute he says that word, Lutchman’s face goes

into rigor mortis. But Grigson doesn’t notice; he’s busy

congratulating himself on his infallible ear. He wags a finger

at Lutchman: “Can’t fool me,” he says. “I’ve got you natives

figured: I know exactly where every single one of you

belongs. Those loan words will give you away every time.”

‘Now, suddenly, Lutchman makes his move. He snatches

up his lantern and says, “Come on, follow me.”

‘“Where to?” says Grigson, but Lutchman’s already out

the door. Grigson starts running too.

‘Happens that Secunderabad, like many British

cantonment towns, is a big railway hub. The station’s not far

from Ross’s bungalow: in fact the shunting yard is just a

couple of hundred feet from the bottom of the garden. But

Grigson’s new in town and he’s not wise to this. He’s

running real hard, chasing after Lutchman’s red light. He’s

panting; endorphins are popping in his head like champagne

bubbles. He’s not in good shape; he gets more and more

disoriented the harder he runs.

‘He’s giving it everything he’s got, but the lantern’s

always just a little bit ahead, bobbing, turning, twisting: it

seems to be leading him somewhere. It’s very dark; the glow

of the lantern is the only thing Grigson can see. He’s not

sure where he is, but he knows he’s not running on grass

any more: this is gravel under his feet. He can hear

something ringing on metal. But he can’t trust what he

hears; he’s exhausted, his ears are pounding.

‘Then he hears a sound that nearly splits his eardrums:

it’s a whistle. He looks back and suddenly it’s like the

movies were just invented and he’s sitting in the front row: a

locomotive is bearing down on him, snorting clouds of

steam. He panics and starts running between the tracks;

he’s set to become roadkill. But in the last half second he

manages to jump: the fenders miss him by a fraction of an

inch.

‘The red light’s gone now. Somehow Grigson manages to

find his way back to the bungalow. He’s scared: he’s sure

that Lutchman was trying to stage an accident to kill him. He

thinks he should warn Ross that something very weird is

going on under his roof. But he chickens out: he doesn’t

want to explain what he was doing down at the servants’

quarters. So what does he do instead? He writes it all down

in his diary.

‘Next morning Lutchman’s waiting at the breakfast table,

just like any other day, looking like there’s not a thought on

his mind. He’s the model servant, as always: smiling,

obsequious, attentive. Grigson decides he’s not going to

lunch in this town any more: he’s young, he’s got a life to

live. He catches the next train out of Secunderabad.’

■

■

■

fourteen

SONALI NOTICED that Urmila had gone suddenly quiet

after stepping into her building; that she didn’t say a word

while waiting for the lift, just looked around the lobby with

her lips pursed, taking in all the details. She could tell Urmila

was fighting down an urge to say something disapproving.

Sonali had lived here long enough to forget how strange

the place had seemed to her at first, grotesque even: the

marble floors, the ornate gilt mirrors on the walls, the tall

palms in the corners, in their polished brass planters. It

wasn’t like anything you expected to see in Calcutta, except

in a five-star hotel.

When Romen first showed her the building she’d told

him that it didn’t seem like a place one could live in—that

she, Sonali, could live in, at any rate. One would spend so

much time worrying about how to do things: about where to

hang one’s washing and whether to buy new furniture. But

Romen had just laughed, as she knew he would. ‘It’s just

business,’ he said, ‘all that marble and brass. That’s what

they pay for, the people who buy these flats. You don’t

have to take it seriously.’

The lift arrived and Urmila stepped in, still silent. Sonali

wished she could think of something to say to put it in

perspective: to let her know that this wasn’t the kind of

place she was used to living in, that she’d spent most of her

life following her mother from one poky little flat to another,

that her mother was both so used to poverty and so terrified

of it that she’d never thought of living in any other way,

even when she had money. But then the door of the lift slid

open and it was too late.

Sonali opened her front door and was surprised to find

her flat in darkness. Switching on the lights, she ushered

Urmila in.

‘No one at home?’ Urmila said, looking around the large,

glass-fronted room, with its Kashmiri rugs and its low chairs,

upholstered in bright Gujarati mirrorwork.

‘There’s a boy who cooks and cleans…’ Sonali said,

motioning Urmila to a chair. ‘Usually when I get home he’s

sitting on the carpet watching Zee TV and singing at the top

of his voice.’

She tossed her handbag on a chair and walked down the

corridor to the kitchen, switching on the lights as she went.

The kitchen was tidy, everything in place, the marble

counters gleaming clean. She went quickly through to a

room at the back and turned on the naked light bulb that

hung from the ceiling on a twisted cord.

The room was empty: the mattress and the bedclothes lay

neatly folded, at the foot of the charpoy. Everything else

was gone: his fearsomely loud transistor radio, his slippers,

the printed T-shirts he always wore. She went over to a small

desk at the far corner of the room and pulled open a drawer.

It was empty too: his books, pencils and ballpoints were all

gone.

‘Is he there?’ Urmila called out.

‘No,’ said Sonali distractedly. ‘I think he’s left—all his

things are gone.’ She switched the light off and walked

slowly back to the drawing room.

‘Was he your only servant?’ Urmila asked.

Sonali shook her head. ‘He wasn’t really a servant,’ she

said. ‘I don’t like to have servants living in the house.’

‘So then…?’

‘He went to school during the day,’ said Sonali. ‘But he

cooked and cleaned in the evening, when he remembered:

that was the arrangement. Romen suggested it. One of his

contractors or someone found the boy: he was making a

living by performing mathematical tricks for the rush-hour

passengers on local trains. Romen claimed he was some kind

of prodigy and took him under his wing.’

Sonali was absently opening doors, looking into rooms

and bathrooms, as though she were half-expecting to find

him. ‘I can’t understand it,’ she said. ‘Where could he have

gone? He doesn’t have anywhere to go. He doesn’t know

anyone except Romen.’

Then the phone rang, in the drawing room. Sonali ran

over and picked up the grey cordless handset. With a

gesture of apology to Urmila, she unlatched a door and

carried the phone out to the balcony.

‘Hello,’ she said, pressing the talk button. She lowered

her voice to a whisper. ‘Romen?’

The phone crackled and a voice came humming over the

line. She knew at once it wasn’t Romen; it was some other

man. Sonali stiffened, embarrassed as well as disappointed.

‘Could you please tell me,’ the voice said in polite, formal

Bengali, ‘is Mr Romen Haldar there by any chance?’

‘No, he is not,’ she said, pitching her voice to a carefully

businesslike note, trying to erase every trace of the intimacy

that had been in it moments ago. ‘Who’s speaking?’

‘Oh, so he is not there?’ came the answer, in muted

surprise.

‘No,’ Sonali answered. She was surprised herself now:

the only person who ever telephoned here to ask for Romen

was his secretary. That was Romen’s rule, not hers, one of

his bizarre gestures at domestic propriety. It was to protect

her, Sonali, he always said, to keep people from gossiping—

as though that would keep people from gossiping.

‘Who’s speaking?’ she said—not harshly, but just a little

tentatively.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the voice at the other end.

‘Wait,’ she said quickly. ‘Just a minute; who is it? Who’s

speaking?’

The line had already gone dead.

She sank into a cane chair and dropped the phone on her

lap. A fluttering curtain caught her eye, somewhere in the

building that faced hers. Her suspicions were immediately

confirmed: the neighbours were watching her again. She

caught a glimpse of a couple of heads just as they were

ducking out of sight.

Sometimes she wondered whether they posted lookouts

at their windows to keep a watch on her balcony. What did

they do when they caught a glimpse of her? Did they go

running through their flats shouting: ‘Sonali Das is on her

balcony again, come out and take a look!’

They always seemed so shy when she ran into them on

the lifts or in the parking area—these well-off heart surgeons

and bank managers and their chiffon-wrapped wives. They

would smile in acknowledgement and then drop their eyes,

as though afraid to be caught staring. Occasionally, they

would tell her they liked her films, or her book. Some of the

older people would talk about her mother’s acting: they’d

tell stories about how they had gone all the way to the huge

canvas tent at Narkeldanga and bought four-anna tickets to

see Kamini-debi performing some of her famous old jatra

p la y s , Marie Antoinette; Queen of France

or Rani

Rashmoni.

She knew they gossiped about her and Romen; she often

felt a kind of idle curiosity about what they made of her: did

they feel sorry for her? Contemptuous? Outraged? It would

have been interesting to know, in an abstract kind of way:

not that she cared, really. She’d grown up with gossip: her

mother had had to deal with twice as much and she hadn’t

cared either.

She rose to go inside and then, on an impulse, sat down

once more and dialled the number of the Wicket Club. The

phone rang several times before the head bartender finally

answered.

‘Javed?’ she said.

‘Salaam, memsahib,’ he said, recognizing her immediately.

‘Romen-sahib left about half an hour ago.’

‘Half an hour ago?’ said Sonali. ‘You mean he was there

all evening?’

‘Yes,’ said the bartender. ‘He tried to phone you; I heard

him asking someone to call you. He waited for a while and

then he left.’

‘Oh,’ said Sonali, She had a sudden vision .of Romen

standing at the far end of the horseshoe-shaped bar, tall,

burly and balding, hunched over the club’s telephone,

holding the mouthpiece in that awkward fumbling grip of his.

‘Do you know where he went?’ she asked.

‘No,’ came the answer. ‘But I know he sent the Sierra

home with his driver.’

‘So how did he go?’

‘He took a taxi.’

‘A taxi!’ Sonali was astonished. ‘But Romen always takes

his own car. Where was he going? Do you know?’

‘No,’ said the bartender. But then he added, ‘Wait a

minute memsahib.’ He put the phone down and she heard

him talking to the other bartenders. Then he came back to

the phone. ‘Memsahib?’ he said. ‘The durwan who was on

duty at the gate heard Romen-sahib talking to the taxi

driver.’

‘Did he hear him say where he was going?’ Sonali asked.

‘Yes. He was going to Robinson Street, but he wanted to

stop on the way, at Park Circus.’

‘Oh.’ Sonali switched the phone off and went slowly back

inside.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Urmila, jumping to her feet.

‘You look like you’ve had a shock.’

Sonali fell into a chair. ‘Apparently Romen’s on his way

to Robinson Street,’ she said, chewing on her knuckles.

‘I see,’ said Urmila. ‘Did he have an appointment?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Sonali said. ‘And he’s going to stop

at Park Circus on the way.’

‘Why there?’

‘I don’t have any idea,’ said Sonali. ‘The only person I

know who lives there is Phulboni. But Romen didn’t say

anything about visiting him: he said he’d come here around

nine tonight.’

Urmila gave her arm a pat. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon,’

she said in a soothing voice.

Sonali made a distracted gesture. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Everyone seems to be disappearing today. If he doesn’t

come soon I’ll have to go and look for him.’

She laughed, a little nervously. ‘Now what was it that you

wanted to ask me about?’ she said.

Urmila sat up eagerly, ‘I was curious,’ she said, ‘about

whether you ever heard Phulboni talk about someone called

Laakhan?’

‘Someone called Laakhan?’ Sonali lowered herself into a

sofa. ‘That’s interesting. Why do you ask?’

■

■

■

fifteen

THE CROWD IN the restaurant was thinning now; the tables

were emptying fast as people hurried back to work. Antar

glanced from his watch to Murugan, sitting across the table.

He was pouring from the restaurant’s bamboo-handled

teapot, evidently unconscious of the time. Antar decided to

stay a few minutes longer.

‘What’s the joke?’ Murugan said sharply, his voice

cutting through the buzz.

Antar sat up, startled: ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘Was I smiling?’

‘You bet you were,’ said Murugan.

‘Well, then,’ Antar said. ‘I suppose I was smiling.’

‘You think this scenario is funny or something?’

Murugan asked.

‘Frankly, I don’t know what to think,’ Antar said. ‘I’ve

heard you out, and as far as I can see you don’t have a

shred of real evidence, or proof or anything…’

‘And what if I said that’s what my proof is?’

‘The lack thereof, you mean?’ said Antar, trying not to

smile.

‘I mean secrecy is what this is about: it figures there

wouldn’t be any evidence or proof.’

Antar shrugged. ‘But even if I were to grant that,’ he

said, ‘your version still wouldn’t make sense. If I followed

you correctly, you were suggesting that this other team—to

use your phrase—was already ahead of Ross on some of

this research. But then why wouldn’t they just go ahead

with this research themselves? Why wouldn’t they publish

their findings and put themselves in the running for the

Nobel?’

Murugan ran his hand over his chin. ‘All right,’ he said,

after a long pause. ‘I’ll sketch a scenario for you. I’m not

saying that’s how it happened: I’m just asking you to hear

me out.’

‘Go ahead,’ Antar said politely.

‘Let me put it like this,’ Murugan said. ‘You know all

about matter and antimatter, right? And rooms and

anterooms and Christ and Antichrist and so on? Now, let’s

say there was something like science and counter-science.

Thinking of it in the abstract, wouldn’t you say that the first

principle of a functioning counter-science would have to be

secrecy? The way I see it, it wouldn’t just have to be

secretive about what it did (it couldn’t hope to beat the

scientists at that game anyway); it would also have to be

secretive in what it did. It would have to use secrecy as a

technique or procedure. It would in principle have to refuse

all direct communication, straight off the bat, because to

communicate, to put ideas into language, would be to

establish a claim to k now—which is the first thing that a

counter-science would dispute.’

‘I don’t follow,’ said Antar. ‘What you’re saying doesn’t

make sense.’

‘You took the words out of my mouth,’ Murugan said.

‘Not making sense is what it’s about—conventional sense,

that is. Maybe this other team started with the idea that

knowledge is self-contradictory; maybe they believed that to

know something is to change it, therefore in knowing

something, you’ve already changed what you think you

know so you don’t really know it at all: you only know its

history. Maybe they thought that knowledge couldn’t begin

without acknowledging the impossibility of knowledge. See

what I’m saying?’

‘I’m listening,’ said Antar. ‘For what it’s worth.’

‘Maybe none of this makes sense,’ said Murugan. ‘But

let’s just try and take it on its own terms for a minute. Let’s

look at the kinds of working hypotheses it yields. Here’s

one: if it’s true that to know something is to change it, then

it follows that one way of changing something—of effecting

a mutation, let’s say—is to attempt to know it, or aspects of

it. Right?’

Antar nodded.

‘OK,’ said Murugan. ‘So let’s run with this for a bit. Let’s

say that just about the time that Ronnie’s beginning to work

on malaria there’s this other person—this team—that’s also

been working with Plasmodium falciparum but in a different

way; a way so different it wouldn’t make any sense to

anyone who’s properly trained. But let’s say that by

accident or design they’ve made a certain amount of

progress; they’ve taken their work to a certain point and

then they’ve run smack into a dead end: they’re stuck, they

can’t go any further—because of the glitches in their own

methods, because they just haven’t got the right equipment.

Whatever. They decide that the next big leap in their project

will come from a mutation in the parasite. The question now

is: how do they speed up the process? The answer is:

they’ve got to find a conventional scientist who’ll give it a

push.

‘Enter Ronnie. But what do they do next? They can’t tell

him what they know because it’s against their religion.

Besides, they can’t exactly walk up to him and say, “Hey

there, Ron, what’s cooking?” To begin with they wouldn’t

get past the guards of the 19th Madras Infantry. Even if they

did, Ronnie wouldn’t believe them. They’ve got to make it

look like he’s found out for himself. So they go into a huddle

and try to think through their next move. Remember that

these guys haven’t got a whole lot going for them: they’re

fringe people, marginal types; they’re so far from the

mainstream you can’t see them from the shore. On the credit

side, there’s a lot of them and they know all about Ronnie,

but neither Ronnie nor anyone else knows anything about

them. They’ve also got the best collection of parasites in

town. They’ve just got to play their cards right and they can

do it.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Antar. ‘But it still leaves the

basic question unanswered.’

‘And what’s that?’ said Murugan.

‘Why? Why would anyone go to so much trouble? It’s

clear enough what’s in it for Ross: fame, prospects,

promotions, a Nobel. But what could these other people—

accepting your premise for a moment—hope to gain from all

this?’

‘I thought you’d ask,’ Murugan said. ‘And once again, I

don’t have the answer. But if I am right—and the way this

game’s set up, there’s no way you’re ever going to know

whether I’m right or not—but if I am right, let’s just say

even fractionally right, then what these guys were

developing was the most revolutionary medical technology

of all time. Forget about the Nobel, forget about diseases

and cures and epidemiology and shit like that. What these

guys were after was much bigger; they were after the

biggest prize of all, the biggest fucking ball game any human

being has ever thought of: the ultimate transcendence of

nature.’

‘And what might that be?’ Antar asked politely.

‘Immortality,’ said Murugan.

Antar slapped the table. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, with a laugh.

‘You mean like Osiris and Horus and Amun-Ra? Were they

hoping to grow nice little jackal heads? Or were they

planning to sprout ibis beaks?’

‘Maybe I overstated the case a bit,’ Murugan said. ‘What

I’m really talking about is a technology for interpersonal

transference.’

‘Interpersonal what? ’ said Antar.

Before Murugan could answer, the waiter appeared, and

placed the bill between them. He was middle-aged, with a

diffident, nervous manner. He looked on, smiling

exaggeratedly and rubbing his hands as they counted out

their money.

All of a sudden Murugan sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘I’ll

give you an example,’ he said. Jumping to his feet, he thrust

his face into the waiter’s. Then, at the top of his voice he

shouted, ‘Yo!’

The waiter stumbled back, his mouth open, his eyes

dilating. The plate dropped out of his hands, shattering on

the floor. He fell to his knees and began to whimper, in

shock, covering his face with his hands.

Antar stared soundlessly, frozen, half in and half out of

his chair. There was an absolute hush within the restaurant;

several pairs of chopsticks hung in the air as every head

turned towards Murugan.

Murugan was watching the waiter with a look of

suppressed excitement, his eyes bright with expectation.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded Antar.

Suddenly Murugan spun around and leapt at him.

Thrusting his nose within an inch of Antar’s he shouted,

‘Boo!’

Antar recoiled, brushing the back of his hand across his

face. ‘Have you gone out of your mind?’ he said angrily.

Murugan stood back, with a smile on his face. ‘See,’ he

said, ‘it worked.’

He waved a nonchalant hand at the few remaining diners.

‘Relax,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just

checking variations in individual motor reactions to stress

situations. ’

He patted Antar on the shoulder. ‘See,’ he said. ‘Same

stimulus, different response: he says tamatar and you say

tamatim. Now think, what if the “im” and the “ar” could be

switched between you and him? What would you have

then? You’d have him speaking in your voice, or the other

way around. You wouldn’t know whose voice it was. And

isn’t that the scariest thing there is, Ant? To hear something

said, and not to know who’s saying it? Not to know who’s

speaking? For if you don’t know who’s saying something,

you don’t know why they’re saying it either.’

The hush broke and an indignant, protesting murmur

swept through the restaurant. The waiter picked himself

slowly off the floor while the manager began to advance

purposefully towards their table. Three other waiters

followed close behind.

Murugan threw them a hurried glance and pulled out his

wallet. ‘Now what would you say, Ant,’ he asked, ‘if all of

that information could be transmitted chromosomally, from

body to body?’ He shook his wallet under Antar’s nose.

‘How much do you think you’d pay for that kind of

technology, Ant? Just think, a fresh start: when your body

fails you, you leave it, you migrate—you or at least a

matching symptomology of your self. You begin all over

again, another body, another beginning. Just think: no

mistakes, a fresh start. What would you give for that, Ant: a

technology that lets you improve on yourself in your next

incarnation? Do you think something like that might be

worth a little part of your pension fund?’

The waiters converged and Murugan broke off to

confront them. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, taking a wad of notes

out of his wallet. ‘I’ll pay for everything.’

Ignoring this, they took hold of his arms and began to

push him away from the table.

‘Hey, guys,’ Murugan protested. ‘Didn’t I say it was an

experiment? Where’s your spirit of enquiry?’

Lifting him bodily off the floor, the waiters carried him

quickly towards the door.

‘See why I have to go to Calcutta, Ant?’ Murugan

shouted, as they bore him inexorably towards the entrance.

‘If there is a Calcutta chromosome I’ve got to find it. I guess

I need it more than you do.’

■

■

■

sixteen

‘I’VE BEEN DOING a little research,’ Urmila said to Sonali,

‘and I’ve discovered that when Phulboni was a young man

he wrote a set of stories called The Laak han Stories. They

were published in an obscure little magazine and have never

been reprinted. I managed to find the right issue in the

National Library.’

‘I’ve never even heard of them,’ said Sonali. ‘I was

probably too young when they came out.’

‘Well, the stories are very short and they all feature a

character called Laakhan,’ Urmila said. ‘In one he’s a

postman; in another he’s a village schoolmaster, something

else in another.’

‘How odd,’ said Sonali.

‘Isn’t it?’ Urmila said. ‘When they were first published

the critics thought it was some kind of elaborate allegory—

with each character being different but also the same and all

of them being mixed up and so on. And then of course

everyone forgot about them. But I looked them up, and I had

the distinct feeling that there was something more to it. ’

‘More?’ said Sonali. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly,’ said Urmila. ‘But I

was talking to Mrs Aratounian one day—’

‘Had she read them?’ Sonali interrupted, eyebrows raised.

‘Oh no,’ Urmila laughed. ‘She doesn’t have much time for

writers. Besides, you know how she is: doesn’t know a word

of Bengali even though she’s been here all her life. But she’s

very sharp you know and I often find that it helps to talk

things over with her. She’s given me a lot of good advice

over the years: in fact it was she who suggested that I go to

the National Library.’

‘I see,’ said Sonali. ‘Go on.’

‘So I told her about the stories and she agreed with me at

once. “Dust in our eyes, my dear,” she said. “Take my word

for it.”’

‘What did she mean?’

‘She thought the stories were a message to someone; to

remind them of something—some kind of shared secret. You

know, like those strange little ads you sometimes see in the

Personal columns?’

Sonali’s eyes widened. ‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘It’s

possible.’

‘So you do know something about the stories?’ Urmila

said eagerly.

Sonali took a sip of her tea. ‘I don’t know if it has

anything to do with the stories you’re talking about,’ she

said. ‘But I do know that something very strange happened

to Phulboni when he was in his twenties. And it did have

something to do with a “Laakhan”.’

‘Really?’ Urmila sat up eagerly. ‘What happened?’

‘It began with my mother asking him why he’d given up

shooting.’

‘Shooting?’ said Urmila in astonishment. ‘You mean

Phulboni used to shoot?’

‘Yes,’ said Sonali smiling. ‘He was a very good shot. I’ll

tell you how I found out.’ She curled her legs under her and

settled into the cushions that lined the sofa’s armrest, her

face lit by a fondly reminiscent smile.

‘Phulboni was always in and out of our house when I was

a child,’ she said. ‘He was like an uncle to me: I used to call

him Murad-mesho. We were living in a tiny flat off Park

Circus, just my mother and me. The flat was really very small,

but we always had lots of guests—especially writers and

artists: every evening there’d be at least half a dozen people

there and Phulboni was one of the regulars. He always came

wearing the same old pair of frayed trousers, the same worn

leather belt, and starched white shirt. You know how starch

always smells a little when you sweat? That’s how he smelt:

of cigarettes and sweaty starch.

‘He was a splendid-looking man: over six feet tall, straight

and lean as a lamp-post. He was very poor then and lived all

by himself: his wife had left him and gone back to her family.

The moment he arrived my mother would whisper to the

servants to run down and get some biriani. He’d had a good

job once, with a British firm, Palmer Brothers, but he gave it

up when he started writing. He wanted to make his living as

a writer but his work was just too difficult for the public: all

those dialect words from languages no one had ever heard

of. His father worked for one of those mountain maharajas in

Orissa and he grew up in the jungle, speaking the language

of the local people, running wild. That’s why he later took

the pen-name Phulboni, after the region.

‘Living in the forest, he must have learned to shoot very

early, but he never told anyone about it. It was quite by

accident that I discovered that he was an excellent shot.

‘Once, my mother was acting in a jatra somewhere on the

outskirts of Calcutta. It was one of those places where the

performance is under a huge circus tent. There’s a round

stage inside and at the same time there is a fair going on

outside—you know, with phuchka-stalls and roundabouts

and all that.

‘I had squeezed into a little space under the wooden

stage, and I was watching the crowd, making faces at the

children, that kind of thing. The play was Marie Antoinette:

Queen of France. My mother was playing Marie Antoinette,

of course: she was getting on then, and if there was a wicked

queen or a harridan of a mother-in-law she would invariably

get the part. Ma was just launching into her big speech, you

know, the famous one: “They don’t have any rice? Then let

them eat ledigenis.”

‘Suddenly I looked up and saw Phulboni coming in. I

screamed and ran up to him, pushing through the crowd.

Both of us had heard the speech a hundred times. I was

bored so I didn’t let him watch the play. Instead I made him

walk around the fair, buying me jhalmuri and mihidana and

that kind of thing. Then we came to one of those stalls with

an airgun and lots of balloons lined up in rows. I began to

tease him, saying why don’t you try and shoot some of

those balloons: you writers aren’t good for anything. He

kept saying no, no, no, but in the end he gave in. To my

astonishment he didn’t miss once in his first ten shots. I

said: “That was just luck, let’s see if you can do it again.” He

said, “All right,” and took five steps back, and again he

didn’t miss a shot. He moved back still further: a whole

crowd gathered to watch him. Not a single miss. In the end

the stall-owner begged him to stop: “Sahib, please forgive

me, but if I let you go on like this, what are my children

going to eat?”

‘I told my mother about the incident and she was just as

surprised as I. Phulboni had never said a word to her about

shooting or hunting. She asked him about it and he just

laughed it off. But my mother wasn’t one to give up. She got

to work on him one day after he’d drunk a lot of rum and he

told her a story. But he was very upset the next day: he said

he didn’t want the story to get around and made her promise

never to tell anyone.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Urmila could not keep the disappointment out

of her voice.

‘In fact after that he began to avoid us,’ said Sonali. ‘In

the last years of her life my mother became very worried

about Phulboni. His behaviour became stranger and stranger

as his fame grew. He’d get drunk and wander the streets all

night as if he was looking for something: I’ve heard he still

does. She wanted him to come and live with us but he

wouldn’t: he stopped seeing his old friends and wouldn’t

have much to do with anyone. He didn’t even come to see

her when she was dying. She was convinced that it was

because he’d never forgiven her for getting that story out of

him and she could never understand why. And I must say I

couldn’t either.’

‘So she told you?’ Urmila said.

‘Yes,’ said Sonali. ‘Shortly before she died.’

■

■

■

seventeen

AFTER ALL THESE years, Antar still found himself gritting

his teeth as he thought back to that day, at the Thai

restaurant, remembering how he had sat in his chair,

slumped in a stupor of mortification, trying to avoid the

stares that were directed at him from the surrounding tables.

On the way out he had plucked up the courage to stutter

an apology to the manager. ‘I don’t really know him at all,’

he said. ‘I met him for the first time today. The man’s clearly

mad. I’ve never had anything to do with him before, and I

hope I never will again.’ Back at the office he wasted no time

in uploading everything he had on Murugan’s case and

sending the file back to the Swedish Director. ‘If this is what

it means to deal with the human side of things,’ he recalled

saying, ‘I think I’d rather go back to accounts, thank you.’

By the time he left work, he was confident that he had put

the whole business behind him. But he got home to find his

answering machine blinking furiously: there were three

messages on it. He had a twinge of apprehension: it was

rarely that he had so much as a single message; he could not

remember an occasion when he had had more. His instincts

told him to touch the rewind button, wipe the tape clean. But

instead, his hand went out and touched ‘Play’—just to make

sure, he told himself, just so he would know who it was.

His worst fears were instantly confirmed. There was that

voice again, blaring out of the machine, the sound of it even

more grating now than in real life: ‘Listen, you fucking jerk:

you think this stuff’s all just a pie in the sky, huh?’

With a jab of his thumb Antar cut the first message short

and forwarded to the next one. ‘It’s me again,’ said the same

voice, ‘your pal Morgan: your dumbass machine cut me

off…’ Antar forwarded to the third and last message and

there it was again, that voice: ‘Did you know your machine’s

got the concentration span of a frozen chicken?’

Antar slammed a finger on the fast forward button, and

kept it there until the tape almost ran out. But he still caught

the final sentence: ‘there’s a document waiting for you right

this minute, in your mail-folder…’ Antar spun around to face

his monitor, across the room. Sure enough, the biff was

blinking on his screen. He stared unnerved at the blinking

elliptical surface of that old-fashioned screen: it was like

walking in on a burglar.

He had to make an effort to pull himself together before

he could go over to the keyboard. He deleted the entire

document without having read a single line.

Now, seating himself on the edge of his bed, Antar tried

to think back across the years to 1995. He remembered that

he had disposed of the answering machine some time after

that incident: he had voice mail at Life Watch and call-

forwarding when he was out, so he didn’t really need it

anyway. He scratched his head trying to recall what he had

done with the machine. He’d meant to sell it or give it away

but no one had wanted it. He had a vague memory of putting

it in a plastic bag and shoving it into a closet, with his old

clothes and shoes.

The closet was in the corridor, between his kitchen and

his bedroom, a teeming hollow into which, over the years, he

had emptied his life. Rising from his chair he went over and

gave its closed door a speculative look. The last time he’d

opened it was a few weeks ago, while searching for an old

laptop: an avalanche of discarded objects had come

tumbling off the shelves. He placed a hand on the knob and

prised the door gently open. A tremor ran through the

closet, but to his relief everything stayed in place.

He began to empty the shelves, one by one, piling up

everything in the corridor: old shoes, timerless toasters,

broken umbrellas, accordion files. And then he spotted it,

hidden behind a pile of yellowing Arabic newspapers: a

brown rectangular shape, wrapped in transparent plastic.

He took it down and carried it into his bedroom, leaving

everything else piled in the corridor. Sitting on the edge of

his bed, he unwrapped it, blowing off the dust. He rubbed

his finger over the rectangle of clear plastic that covered the

machine’s microcassette and pushed the eject button.

Somewhat to his surprise the mechanism seemed to be in

working order. The cassette popped out and he cleaned it

carefully, with the corner of his bedsheet.

Slipping the cassette back, he plugged the machine in.

The blinking light came on, and the cassette began to turn.

And then, punctuated by squeaks from the cassette’s dusty

wheels, he heard a voice, blunted by the passage of time,

but still more or less audible. He turned the volume up.

‘Listen, you fucking creep,’ said the voice, just as he

remembered it, ‘you think this stuff’s all just a pie in the sky

huh? You think I don’t have any proof? Well let me tell you

something: I don’t know what they call proof down where

you live but I’ve got something that’s good enough for me.

‘You remember I mentioned a guy called W. G.

MacCallum—a doctor and research scientist who made one

of the big breakthroughs in malaria in 1897? OK, listen to

this: what this guy did was he showed that the little “rods”

that Laveran had seen, coming out of the parasite’s hyaline

membrane, weren’t flagellae, like the great man thought. In

fact they were exactly what they look like—that is, spunk—

and what they did was what spunk does, which is make

babies. You wouldn’t think it would take a Galileo to figure

that out: I mean what did they look like, for Pete’s sake? But

the fact is, that MacCallum was the first to get it. He wasn’t

the first to see it, but he was the first to figure it out. Laveran

saw it before him, but he didn’t get it: guess Lav-the-Man

didn’t exactly have sex on his mind. Ronnie Ross saw it

about a year before MacCallum did and he thought he’d

seen his father. No kidding; he thought the flagella was a

kind of soldier, going out to war, like Pa Ross on his white

horse. I mean, think about it: Ronnie sees this thing that

looks like a prick; it goes swimming across his slide and

starts humping an egg, and what does Ronnie make of it? He

thinks it’s the charge of the Light Brigade. The moral is: just

because you take a boy out of Victoria’s England, doesn’t

mean you’ve got her out of the boy.’

Here there was a beep and the voice was cut abruptly

short. A moment later it resumed: ‘It’s me again, your pal

Morgan, your dumbass machine cut me off. Now, where was

I? Oh yeah, MacCallum.

‘Anyway, MacCallum was just a kid, and a Yank, stuffed

full of pumping red-blooded hormones, and he knew what

he’d seen all right. He wrote a paper fast as he could and

presented it at a big doctors’ convention in Toronto in 1897.

It went down so well that he got to go jogging with Mr

Germicide himself, Lord Lister.

‘OK, so MacCallum was the first to figure it out. But back

when he was getting started on his research, he worked with

a whole team down at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. The other

members of the team were Eugene L. Opie and a guy called

Elijah Monroe Farley. MacCallum and Opie were the heavies,

while Farley was kind of like the water-boy and gofer. He

didn’t last long. Just when the team was getting started on

malaria, Farley got the itch to see the world. He volunteered

his services to a missionary group from Boston, and next

thing anyone knew he’d shipped out for India.’

Here there was another interruption. With an aggrieved

comment, Murugan’s voice resumed:

‘OK, so you want to know how I know all this? It

happened like this: a couple of years ago I was looking

through Eugene L. Opie’s private papers in Baltimore. I was

checking out his lab notes, and what do you think fell out?

A letter from Dr Elijah Monroe Farley addressed to Opie. It

was like it had been left there to wait for me. Farley wrote the

letter after visiting a lab in Calcutta—a lab run by a guy

called D. D. Cunningham. That was the lab where Ross ran

the last lap of his race, in 1898. D. D. Cunningham was his

predecessor at the lab, and Ross didn’t get there until early

1898. But this letter was written in 1894 and it was the last

thing Elijah Farley ever wrote.

‘To cut to the chase: you know what was in this letter?

Well there was a lot of stuff—I mean like pages and pages of

stuff—but buried under all the garbage there was this

sentence that proves that Farley had already found out

about the role of the so-called “flagellae” in sexual

reproduction, long before MacCallum. That is, he already

knew what MacCallum hadn’t yet discovered. And when I

worked out the dates and stuff, it was clear that the only

place he could have learnt it was in Calcutta. But who could

he have learnt it from? D. D. Cunningham didn’t know and

didn’t care and at this time Ronnie Ross was still in the

research equivalent of Montessori school. Fact is, Ronnie

never managed to work out the stuff about the flagellae for

himself: just couldn’t bring himself to deal with all that sex

happening under his ‘scope. He only found out in 1898,

when Doc Manson mailed him a summary of MacCallum’s

findings.

‘And that’s not all. Remember Ross’s assistant—

Lutchman or Laakhan or whatever you want to call him?

Well, I have a hunch Farley met him long before Ross did: in

fact Farley may have seen too much of him for his own

good.

‘The trouble is, Farley’s letter was uncatalogued, and I

only saw it that one time. I put it back, and filled out a form

asking for permission to xerox it. But it wasn’t there the next

time I looked. The librarian wouldn’t believe me, because it

wasn’t on the catalogues. I’ve never been able to find it

again, so strictly speaking I still don’t have my smoking gun.

But I saw it and I held it in my hands and when I got back to

my motel that day I wrote it up, as I remembered it. And

guess what? You can have a preview: if you look at your

monitor, you’ll see there’s a document waiting for you right

this minute, in your mail-folder…’

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■

■

■

eighteen

MURUGAN ARRIVED at the guest house to find Mrs

Aratounian watching TV and drinking pale-yellow gimlets.

‘Why, there you are, Mr Morgan,’ she said, patting her

fraying, antimacassared sofa. ‘Do sit down. I was just

beginning to worry about you. Can I pour you a gimlet? Are

you sure? Just a chota—a tiny nightcap to bring you sweet

dreams?’

Mrs Aratounian had discarded the blue velvet dressing

gown she was wearing in the morning, when Murugan

arrived; now she was dressed in a white blouse and severe

black skirt. Bottles of Omar Khayyam Dry Gin and Rose’s

Lime Cordial stood on a small carved table beside her, barely

visible amongst clumps of leaves, growing out of ornate

brass planters.

She followed Murugan’s eyes anxiously as his gaze

strayed to the table. ‘No?’ she said, squinting at him over

her bifocals. ‘You don’t like Omar Khayyam? I’ve got a

bottle of Blue Riband gin somewhere; just for special

occasions. I could go and look for it: I know it’s here

somewhere.’

‘Omar Khayyam will do just fine,’ said Murugan. ‘Thank

you.’

‘Good,’ said Mrs Aratounian. Reaching for a glass, she

poured out a careful measure of gin, then added a splash of

lime cordial and an ice cube. ‘So what did you do with your

day, Mr Morgan?’ she said, handing the glass to Murugan.

Before Murugan could answer, there was a loud burst of

music from the television set, and a voice announced: ‘And

now we take you to our special news programme…’

‘News!’ Mrs Aratounian said sardonically, settling back

into her sofa. ‘I get more news from the sweeper-woman

than I do from this thing.’

A blandly smiling man in a kurta appeared on the screen,

sitting behind a bunch of drooping lilies. ‘The Vice-

President was in Calcutta earlier today,’ he announced, ‘to

present the National Award to the eminent writer Saiyad

Murad Husain, better known by his nom de plume,

Phulboni.’ Abruptly the newsreader’s face disappeared from

the screen, to be replaced by the Vice-President’s, nodding

sleepily on the stage of the Rabindra Sadan auditorium.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Mrs Aratounian. ‘It’s one of those

beastly functions where everybody makes speeches. I really

must get cable; everyone in the building has it but I…’

The camera swept over a large, packed auditorium, and

zoomed in on the front row. Just visible at the corner of the

screen were two women standing in the aisle. One of them

turned briefly towards the stage before following the other

woman down the aisle.

Suddenly Mrs Aratounian sat bolt upright. ‘Why,’ she

cried excitedly, pointing at the TV set with her cane. ‘There’s

Urmila! Imagine seeing Urmila on television! Why, I’ve

known her since she was in school, at St Mary’s Convent.’

She turned confidingly to Murugan: ‘A scholarship

student of course—her family could never have afforded a

school like St Mary’s. She was the mousiest little thing you

ever saw, but lo and behold a couple of years ago she went

off and got herself a job at Calcutta. “What’s the world

coming to,” I said to her, “when I have to get my news from

a chit of a girl like you?”’

The camera panned across the audience again and they

had another glimpse of the two women, one a good way

ahead of the other.

‘Hey!’ Murugan thumped his knee. ‘I know those two…’

‘That’s Sonali Das,’ Mrs Aratounian cried. ‘Another of

my customers at Dutton’s. And such a celebrity too!’

She gave Murugan a speaking look and a half-smile. ‘I

could tell you a thing or two about her,’ she said.

Chuckling to herself, she took a sip of her gimlet.

The camera panned to the stage and Phulboni’s haggard

face appeared, filling the screen. Mrs Aratounian gave a

yelp of disgust. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Heaven help us; one of

those pompous old windbags is going to make a speech.

They’re at it all day. I really must get cable; you can even

get BBC I’m told…’

Suddenly the writer’s hoarse, rasping voice filled the

room: ‘For more years than I can count I have walked the

innermost streets of this most secret of cities, looking

always to find her who has so long eluded me: Silence

herself. I see signs of her presence everywhere I go, in

images, words, glances, but only signs, nothing more…’

Mrs Aratounian tapped her cane on the floor, in

annoyance. ‘Didn’t I warn you, Mr Morgan?’ she snapped.

‘And I’ll wager you tuppence to a groat he’ll go on

absolutely for ever.’

Now Phulboni’s eyes filled with tears: ‘I have tried, as

hard as ever a man has, to find my way to her, to throw

myself before her, to join the secret circle that attends her, to

take the dust of her heels to my head. By every means

available, I have sought her, the ineluctable, ever-elusive

mistress of the unspoken, wooed her, courted her, begged to

join the circle of her initiates.’

Mrs Aratounian slammed her cane on the floor.

‘Appalling,’ she said. ‘The man’s making an utter exhibition

of himself. Isn’t anyone going to do anything?’

‘As a tree spreads its branches,’ the writer’s voice

continued, ‘to court an invisible source of light, so every

word I have ever penned has been written for her. I have

sought her in words, I have sought her in deeds, most of all I

have sought her in the unspoken keeping of her faith.’

Here, abruptly, the writer’s face disappeared from the

screen and a slide of a peaceful mountain scene appeared.

But the writer’s voice continued, eerily disembodied.

Mrs Aratounian gave a yelp of laughter. ‘Look at that, Mr

Morgan,’ she said. ‘They’re so incompetent they can’t even

cut him off.’

The voice rasped on: ‘If I stand before you now, in this

most public of places, it is because I am on the point of

desperation and know of no other way to reach her. I know

that time is running out—my time and her time. I know that

the crossing is nigh; I know it to be at hand…’

Even though the writer’s face was no longer on the

screen, it was evident that he was sobbing: ‘…as the hours

run out, when perhaps no more than a few moments remain,

knowing of no other means I make this last appeal: “Do not

forget me: I have served you as best I could. Only once did I

sin against the Silence, in a moment of weakness, seduced

by the one I loved. Have I not been punished enough?

What more remains? I beg you, I beg you, if you exist at all,

and I have never for a moment doubted it—give me a sign of

your presence, do not forget me, take me with you…”’

The screen flickered and the newsreader’s face

reappeared, sweating lightly. Forcing a smile he began: ‘We

apologize to our viewers…’

Mrs Aratounian struggled to her feet, went over to the

television set and switched it off.

‘This is the kind of nonsense you have to put up with if

you don’t have cable,’ she said in disgust. ‘Night after

night. You tell me, Mr Morgan, would you ever hear rubbish

like that on BBC?’

■

■

■

nineteen

ANTAR STOPPED the answering machine and rose to his

feet. It was no use regretting the loss of the document that

Murugan had posted to his mailbox: if he hadn’t deleted it

then he would have done so soon afterwards. But possibly,

just possibly, it wasn’t irretrievably lost. Perhaps Ava could

find a trace of it and reconstitute the document: it wasn’t

inconceivable. Ava knew some pretty good tricks.

Antar started for the bedroom door: there was only one

way to find out.

Just as he was about to leave the bedroom, he heard a

sound—a muffled sound, like a soft footfall. He spun around

to face the wall. Tara’s living room lay on the far side,

separated only by a couple of inches of plaster and a

bricked-in door. It was uncanny how sound carried through

that wall.

Perhaps Tara had come home: Antar was sure he’d heard

someone. He went to the wall and knocked: ‘Tara, are you

back?’ There was no answer.

He hurried over to his kitchen window and glanced at

Tara’s apartment, across the air-shaft. The lights were still

off: she didn’t seem to be home. He shrugged: it must have

been a damp floorboard: there was no telling, in a building as

old and creaky as this one. He leaned over the sink,

splashed water over his face and reached for a kitchen towel.

He went into his living room and seated himself at the

keyboard. With a tap of a key he sent Ava shooting off to

rummage through the accumulated memories of all his old,

superseded hard disks. It was not unlikely that a binary

‘ghost’ of Murugan’s lost E-mail message had remained

somewhere within the system. Even the faintest trace would

be enough: Ava would do the rest.

Moments later a hand appeared on Ava’s screen,

gesturing morosely, fingers half open. Ava had recently

begun to learn body-language—in Egyptian dialect of

course—and this was her new way of indicating a negative.

Then the gesture changed: the fingers came together,

pointing upwards, in a little dipping motion. That meant

wait; there’s more. Her screen went blank and her voice

mechanism clicked on.

The message might still be found, Ava told him. It would

just take a while. It had been typed on one of those old-

fashioned, contact-based alphabetical keyboards. The

electronic signals emitted by the keys were probably still

traceable. It was simply a question of matching the

electronic ‘fingerprint’ of Murugan’s E-mail message to

every electronic signal that was still alive in the ionosphere.

Antar keyed in a query asking how long the whole

procedure would take.

Ava took a moment to answer. It would mean sifting

through about six thousand eight hundred and ninety-two

trillion çuñabytes, came the response, in other words,

roughly eighty-five billion times the estimated sum of every

dactylographic act ever performed by a human being. It was

certain to take at least fifteen minutes.

Antar keyed in two names, Cunningham and Farley, and

cut Ava loose.

Suddenly Antar was very tired. He looked down and

noticed that there was a mild tremor in his hand. His heart

sank as he touched his forehead and cheek. They were hot

and clammy: it felt like the start of one of his bouts of fever.

Evidently he would have to forgo his walk to Penn Station

today.

In a way Antar was almost relieved. He decided to lie

down while Ava searched the skies.

Antar had almost drifted off to sleep when Ava began to

chirrup a summons twenty minutes later. Heaving off his

bedclothes, he rose shakily to his feet and wrapped himself

in a dressing gown. Then he made his way down the

corridor to his living room.

A message was waiting for him on Ava’s screen: the

search had yielded a few traces of Murugan’s lost E-mail

message. But the signals were faint and possibly distorted.

Ava had reconstructed a semblance of a narrative by

running the retrieved fragments through a Storyline

algorithm. But she was unable to vouch for the authenticity

of the restored text.

Antar typed in a query asking if Ava could generate an

image-simulacrum of the text with her Simultaneous

Visualization program. That way all he’d have to do to

review the text was to lock himself into his Sim Vis visor. He

could just lie back and watch: Ava would do the rest. His

hands felt very unsteady now: he knew he wasn’t up to the

task of reading through a long document.

A hand appeared on Ava’s screen, sketching a gesture of

regret. The answer was negative: the text was too corrupt to

do a continuous image conversion. The best she could do

was provide a verbal rendition.

Antar winced: he hated listening to Ava read, in her flat,

uninflected voice. But on the other hand he was in no

position to do it himself in his current state.

Reaching for his headphones, Antar snapped them into

place.

■

■

■

twenty

IT WAS PAST ELEVEN when Urmila got home. The flat was

in darkness and everybody was in bed.

She let herself in, as quietly as she could, and stood by

the front door while her eyes accustomed themselves to the

darkness. Her younger brother was snoring in the sitting

room. He had played in a Second Division football match

that afternoon: one of the stringers for the sports page had

come over to the reporting desk to tell her that he’d almost

scored. She tiptoed into the sitting room and found him

lying on the sofa, with the light on. He was barebodied,

dressed only in his team’s blue sweatpants, with one foot on

the floor and one arm thrown over the back of the sofa. His

head was on the armrest with his tongue lolling out of his

open mouth, trailing a ribbon of drool.

A plateful of food was waiting for her in the kitchen,

under a net cover. The net seemed to dissolve when she

turned the light on; a swarm of cockroaches melted away

into the cracks and corners. ‘Isn’t anyone going to be

allowed to sleep?’ her older brother shouted, from the

bedroom he shared with his wife and three children. ‘Who’s

turned the light on at this time of the night? ’

Urmila leapt for the switch, almost dropping her plate.

During the day her older brother worked as a salesman for a

company that marketed shares and stock offerings. In the

evenings he earned a little extra by doing tuitions for

schoolchildren. He was always exhausted at night.

She stumbled out of the kitchen in the dark, balancing her

plate carefully in her hands. She made her way to the

bathroom, edging past the campbed where she slept, and

half-closed the door before switching on a light. Seating

herself on the edge of the bed she began to pick at the

plateful of cold dhal and chapattis.

There was a rustle and a footstep in the landing and she

looked up to see her mother, standing beside the camp bed,

dressed in her white night-time sari. ‘When did you get in?’

her mother said sleepily. ‘I waited and waited…’

‘Why?’ said Urmila. ‘You shouldn’t stay up so late—you

remember what the homoeopath said.’

Motioning to her to keep her voice down, her mother

seated herself beside Urmila and put a hand on her knee.

‘I had to tell you tonight Urmi,’ she whispered. ‘There’s

some good news, some really good news, I knew you would

be so happy.’

‘What?’ said Urmila.

‘That’s what I was going to tell you: we had a phone call

from the Secretary of the Wicket Club at eight o’clock.

About your brother, Dinu. I was the one who answered and,

let me tell you the first thing I said was: “Oh, if only my

daughter was here, she would be so happy…”

The member-secretary of the Wicket Club had

telephoned, she said, to let them know that a senior

incumbent of the club’s executive committee was going to

pay them a call the next day, in person, with a view to

discussing Dinu’s prospects.

‘You know what this means Urmi?’ her mother said,

glowing with pleasure at the sudden good fortune that had

befallen her son.

‘What?’ said Urmila.

‘It means they want to give your brother a First Division

contract. Everyone says so—if they’re sending an E.C.

Member then it means a First Division contract, definitely.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Urmila. ‘We’ve heard this talk about

a First Division contract so many times but nothing ever

seems to come of it.’

‘But this time’s different,’ her mother cried. She put an

arm around Urmila’s shoulders and pulled her close. ‘Just

think, Urmi; a First Division contract—money, maybe a flat.

At last you’ll be able to give up this stupid job and stay at

home. Everything will be paid. Maybe we can even get you

married before it’s too late. We can put an advertisement in

the papers…’

‘Ma, that’s enough,’ Urmila said wearily, knowing exactly

what was to follow: that her time was running out; her hair

was thinning; she looked older than she should; the

neighbours were talking about how late she got home…

Urmila broke in quickly, before the litany could get fully

under way. ‘Before you start planning my wedding,’ she

said, ‘let’s see if we can get the contract signed.’

Her mother did not fail to notice the sceptical note in her

voice. ‘I thought you would be glad, Urmi,’ she said with a

catch in her voice. ‘I thought it would make you happy to

hear our news. But instead all you do is pull a long face. You

just don’t care about us any more; all you think about is that

awful job of yours.’

‘Ma, if I didn’t have the job,’ Urmila said wearily, ‘how

would we get by? How far would Baba’s pension go? How

would we feed the children? Can you tell me that?’

Her mother paid her no attention; she was dabbing her

eyes now. ‘That’s all you think about,’ she said. ‘Money,

money, money. You have no place in your heart for our joys

and sorrows. You should have seen how happy your

brother was when I told him about the phone call from the

Club: the first person he thought about was you. He said:

“Didi must cook fish tomorrow, something special like ilish-

mach so we can ask the Club’s representative to stay for

dinner.”

Urmila threw her a look of disbelief. ‘Ma, I can’t cook fish

tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I have to be at a press

conference at nine—the Communications Minister is

arriving on an early-morning flight from Delhi. That means I

have to leave the house by eight fifteen at the latest—

otherwise I’ll never get to Dalhousie on time. You know

what the traffic is like.’

The first notes of a wail escaped her mother’s lips. ‘Urmi,

what are you saying?’ she sobbed. ‘Are you saying your

job is more important than your brother’s life? Are you

telling me that some umbrella-head minister from Delhi is

more important than us?’

She sobbed on while Urmila sat silent on the edge of the

bed. Finally she put her plate down and asked, in

exasperation: ‘Has someone bought the fish?’

‘No,’ her mother said. ‘There wasn’t time and none of us

had the money. You’ll have to get it tomorrow morning from

Gariahat.’

‘I can’t go to Gariahat in the morning,’ Urmila cried in

protest. But she gave up the moment the words were out of

her mouth. It was futile to argue; in the end, she knew, she

would have to go herself. Her father wouldn’t go because it

would interfere with his early-morning breathing exercises;

her brothers wouldn’t go because they would be asleep; her

sister-in-law wouldn’t go because no one would dare ask

her. And as for her mother, she wouldn’t go either, and if

she, Urmila, were to ask, she would burst into tears and say:

‘How could you say this to me? Don’t you know the

homoeopath told me never to go out early in the morning

because of my asthma?’

Then Urmila would want to point out that her asthma

didn’t stop her going to see her guru in Dhakuria every

other day when he did his special dawn appearance to show

himself to his followers in early-morning sunlight. But she

knew she wouldn’t say it, no matter how much she might

want to. Instead of saying it to her mother, she would say it

to herself, as she went hurtling towards Dalhousie in a

minibus, with elbows digging into her back and her nose

stuck in somebody’s armpit. She would keep mouthing the

words to herself over and over again—but you go to your

guru every other morning, Ma—and she would get angrier

and angrier until finally she did something terrible, as she

did the other day, when her mother had made her run down

to the ironing-man’s stall to fetch her brother’s football

shorts before catching the minibus: she’d worked herself

into such a fury, standing on the bus, mouthing her unsaid

protests, that in the end she picked up her foot and jammed

it down on someone’s instep. She didn’t even know why

she’d done that; she just wanted to feel the crunch as the

heel of her shoe dug into flesh and bone. And she had

enjoyed herself too, exchanging insults with the fat little man

whose foot she’d stepped on; they shouted at each other all

the way from Lansdowne to Lord Sinha Road, until she

finally reduced him to browbeaten silence.

She felt her mother’s hands gripping her shoulder. ‘Don’t

fall asleep yet, Urmi,’ she said. ‘Tell me first: will you get the

fish and cook it?’

‘Maybe I won’t have to,’ she said sleepily. ‘Maybe one

of the fish-sellers will come around.’

‘But will you do it anyway?’ her mother insisted.

‘All right,’ Urmila said, in resignation. ‘I will—now let me

go to sleep.’

Her mother gave her shoulder a pat. ‘I knew you would,’

she said. ‘My sweet little Urmi. Oh, your brother will be so

happy. You should have seen how excited he was when I

told him that Romen Haldar was coming to our house…’

It took a moment for the name to filter through and then

Urmila sat up, abruptly.

‘Who?’ she said, in surprise.

‘Romen Haldar,’ said her mother again. ‘He’s the one

who’s coming to visit us, from the Club. You know who he is

don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Urmila said sleepily. ‘Yes, I know who he is. It’s

just a coincidence, that’s all.’

■

■

■

twenty-one

ELIJAH MONROE FARLEY left for India in October 1893,

Ava began, two years after his departure from the research

laboratories of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore.

Several friends and acquaintances travelled up to New York

to send him off, including his mentor, the venerable malaria

specialist W. S. Thayer, and the two other members of his

erstwhile team, W. G. MacCallum and Eugene L. Opie. By the

summer of 1894 the young Reverend Farley was installed in

a small charitable clinic in the remote township of Barich, in

the eastern foothills of the Himalayas. The clinic was run by

the American Ecumenical Mission and its staff were the only

trained medical personnel in the district.

Farley was twenty-six, a tall, lanky man, with ginger hair

and moss-green eyes. Austere and contemplative by nature,

he adapted easily to the rigours of his new calling. If at all he

missed his earlier vocation as scientist, he let no one know:

his every waking hour was consumed by the clinic.

Farley had been at the clinic five months before he had

his first letter. It was from his old friend and colleague,

Eugene Opie in Baltimore. The letter consisted for the most

part of trivialities concerning the weather and the marital and

professional circumstances of common acquaintances. But

Opie also referred, though only in passing, to a research

project that he and MacCallum had recently embarked upon.

Writing in the careless shorthand of a busy research

student, Opie did not take the time to spell out the

theoretical implications of this work. But it was immediately

clear to Farley that Opie and MacCallum were building on

the findings of the Frenchman, Alphonse Laveran.

This unexpected piece of news plunged Farley into a

state of perplexity. As a student he had paid little attention

to Laveran’s work, assuming it to be generally discredited.

In this he had taken his lead from no less a person than

William Osler, the guiding spirit of Johns Hopkins, who had

publicly declared his scepticism of ‘Laveranity’. Farley had

left for India fully confident that Laveran’s theory was

headed for medicine’s vast graveyard of discredited

speculations: his astonishment at the news of its

disinterment could not have been greater.

Once introduced, these apprehensions of Laveranity

revivified gradually insinuated themselves into the young

missionary’s mind, creating doubt and disbelief where

certainty had reigned before. As the days passed these

doubts began to work on him in subtle and unexpected

ways, evoking once again the life he had forsaken, giving

rise to an overwhelming nostalgia for the half-forgotten

habits and routines of the laboratory. He began to bitterly

regret the impulse that had caused him to leave his own

microscope behind, at his family’s New England home, or

else it would have been all too easy to set up an improvised

laboratory right where he was.

Then, by chance rather than design, he discovered,

sandwiched within the pages of a prayerbook, the card of an

English doctor, one Surgeon-Colonel Lawrie, of the Indian

Medical Service. Farley had met Lawrie on one of his

occasional visits to the Mission’s headquarters in Calcutta.

In the course of their brief meeting, the Surgeon-Colonel had

informed him that he was on his way to Hyderabad, to take

up an appointment as Professor in the Medical School

recently founded by the prince of that state, the nizam.

Fortunately, he had scribbled his new address on the back

of his card and Farley lost no time in addressing a letter to

him, enquiring into the present state of opinion regarding

Laveran’s theories.

He had not long to wait: to his great relief Colonel Lawrie

wrote back within the month. But the letter, when he read it,

only deepened his puzzlement: the Colonel still appeared to

hold to the belief that Laveranity was without foundation.

Despite the efforts of certain acolytes, wrote the Colonel,

it remained true, so far as rational opinion could discern, that

Laveran’s speculations were wholly without empirical

foundation. He himself had recently been witness to a

spectacle that had produced forcible proof of this in a

manner that would have been comic had it not so

dramatically shamed its protagonist.

A self-important and opinionated young army doctor,

Ronald Ross had just been posted to the army hospital at

Begumpett, not far from Hyderabad. Having more time on his

hands than was good for him, Ross had taken it upon

himself to begin an investigation into malaria—a disease of

which he had no practical knowledge whatever. The young

man had been overheard, not once but several times, at the

Secunderabad Club, boasting of his familiarity with

Laveran’s chimera. Nor had he hesitated to accept an

invitation to demonstrate the existence of this creature to the

assembled faculty of the Nizam’s School of Medicine. To

this end, he had actually loaded some poor shivering

unfortunate into a bullock cart and brought him rattling over

to the School, eleven miles away. But of course when the

time came, with everybody gathered in the lecture theatre,

there was absolutely nothing to be found in the poor man’s

blood: not a trace of Laveran’s fantastical creature. When

asked for an explanation he had come up with some

stuttering tale of how the creature had gone into temporary

withdrawal: as though the parasite were a sleepy Latin in

need of a daily siesta.

As far as he, Surgeon-Colonel Lawrie, was concerned this

contretemps put paid to the matter, once and for all.

However, the Colonel went on to add, he understood very

well that in these matters a man might want to make up his

mind for himself. One of his colleagues in the Medical

Service, D. D. Cunningham, FRS, a very sound man and a

scientist of some distinction, had the charge of a laboratory,

in Calcutta. Although not comparable to the leading

laboratories of Europe or America, Cunningham’s facilities

were certainly the best in India, and possibly within the

whole continent of Asia. Cunningham was no more

persuaded of Laveran’s theory than anyone else, but he was

a fair-minded man, and would gladly allow his facilities to be

used for a good cause. Should the Reverend Doctor so

desire, he, Surgeon-Colonel Lawrie, would be glad to write a

letter of introduction to Cunningham, etc., etc.

Farley wrote immediately to Lawrie, accepting his offer,

and it was soon arranged that he would visit Cunningham’s

laboratory on his next trip to the Mission’s Calcutta

headquarters.

Farley boarded the train in a state of feverish anticipation.

His excitement was in no way diminished when he

disembarked at Calcutta’s Sealdah Station three days later.

Promptly at five, the next afternoon, Farley presented

himself for tea, at Dr Cunningham’s boarding house. Dr

Cunningham proved to be a large man of florid complexion.

He greeted Farley with booming goodwill, and enquired in

some detail after the health and well-being of his erstwhile

mentor W. S. Thayer, whose work he knew and evidently

admired.

They conversed for some time about general matters and

it soon became clear to Farley that whatever his earlier

accomplishments, Cunningham had long since lost interest

in research. He was not entirely surprised when Cunningham

told him that he was to retire some three years hence, and

that with his future leisure in mind, he had been exploring

the possibility of establishing a private practice in Calcutta.

When eventually the conversation veered around to the

matter at hand, there was a disappointment in store for the

young missionary. Cunningham informed him that due to an

unforeseen circumstance, he was to leave Calcutta in a day

or two: he had been summoned to Assam by a planter friend

who had been taken suddenly ill.

‘But don’t look so stricken, my boy,’ Cunningham

bellowed, clapping Farley on the back. ‘Tomorrow you can

look at all the slides you want. Believe me, it won’t take you

very long to dispose of this Laveran business.’

The next day Farley’s duties kept him at the Mission until

well into the afternoon. As a result, it was not until four

o’clock, when the sun was dipping low over the green

expanse of the Maidan that he arrived at the Presidency

General Hospital. Had the circumstances been other than

they were, he may well have been tempted to spend a few

minutes admiring the restrained elegance of the hospital’s

red-brick buildings and the well-tended lawns and tree-

shaded pathways that surrounded them. But being

determined to make good use of such time as he had, Farley

quickly ascertained the direction of Dr Cunningham’s

laboratory from an attendant and set off towards it at a brisk

walk.

The laboratory was set well back within the hospital’s

spacious and thickly wooded grounds. It was screened from

the main hospital complex by a tall thicket of bamboo, and

upon catching his first glimpse of the building Farley was

taken by surprise.

It looked nothing like any laboratory he had ever seen:

certainly nothing could have been more unlike the

sepulchral chambers of gloom that then served to house the

laboratories of most universities in America and Europe.

This was just an ordinary bungalow, of a type common to

British military installations everywhere.

Standing in the shaded thicket with the bamboo stirring

around him, Farley had an unaccustomed sense of unease.

Casting a backward glance over his shoulder Farley saw no

one around him, neither in the thicket, nor in the bungalow.

Yet he had the distinct feeling that his presence had not

gone unnoticed. Within moments, as though in

confirmation, the bungalow’s front door flew open, and the

tall rubicund figure of Dr Cunningham stepped out on the

veranda. ‘Ah, there you are Farley,’ he cried, ‘they told me

you were here. Well, don’t just stand there, man; come on in.

Let’s settle this business once and for all.’

Recovering, Farley made his way up the bungalow’s

steps, and shook Cunningham’s large, fleshy hand. After a

quick exchange of greetings, the older man put a hand on his

shoulder and steered him toward the laboratory’s open door.

Farley stepped in, only to stop dead in his tracks when he

discovered that he was being minutely observed by a sari-

clad woman and a young man dressed in pyjamas and a

laboratory tunic.

The woman was watching him with a look of such

piercing enquiry that he could not avert his gaze from her.

Dressed in a cheap and brightly coloured cotton sari, she

was neither young nor old, perhaps in her late thirties. When

she had finished with her examination, she seated herself on

the floor, with her knees drawn up in front.

Cunningham must have noticed Farley’s discomfiture, for

he said: ‘Don’t pay the slightest attention to her; she loves

to stare at people.’

‘Who is she?’ Farley asked in an undertone.

‘Oh, she’s just the sweeper-woman,’ Cunningham said

offhandedly. Only then did Farley notice that she was

holding in her hand the mark of her trade, a sweeper’s jharu.

‘She’s a bit of a dragon,’ Cunningham continued, ‘been

here for ever. You know what they’re like: like to give

visitors the once-over. Don’t let her put you off; there’s no

harm in her.’

Farley saw her exchanging a glance with the young man

who was standing beside her and he had the distinct feeling

that a smile and a nod had passed between them, an almost

imperceptible gesture of dismissal. Then the woman rose to

her feet, turned her back on him and went over to the far

corner of the room, as though to indicate that she had

exhausted her interest in him.

Farley felt the blood rushing to his face.

‘Don’t pay her any attention;’ Cunningham said to

Farley, with a wink, ‘she’s a little touched… you know.’

He motioned to the young man to present himself. ‘And

this chokra-boy here,’ he said with a loud satirical laugh, ‘is

a bearer who I’ve trained to help with my slides. I suppose

you could call him my assistant.’

Leading the way between the laboratory’s tables,

Cunningham pointed to a microscope. ‘You can work here,’

he said to Farley. ‘My bearer will get you your slides.’ He

allowed himself a snort of laughter as he let himself out: ‘I

hope you find what you are looking for.’

Farley seated himself at a microscope, and over the next

hour and a half the assistant brought him several dozen

slides to look at. Since the man was a menial employee

Farley was not surprised that Cunningham had not taken the

trouble to tell him his name. But now, as he sat watching him

work, he was impressed by the young man’s deftness: given

his circumstances, his efficiency struck him as quite

remarkable.

But the slides he presented to Farley held no surprises.

They bore dry stains, and were of a familiar kind, with the

black pigmented cells of malarial blood much in evidence. He

had seen dozens like them as a research student in

Baltimore. Of Laveran’s parasite, he saw no sign whatever.

Indeed, he would soon have abandoned the effort if it had

not been for an odd little incident.

After he had been looking into the microscope for an

hour or so, Farley grew thirsty, and asked the young

assistant for water. A tumbler was duly fetched and placed

in front of him. He drank half the water and, wanting to save

the rest for later, placed it within easy reach, just behind his

microscope.

Several minutes later, glancing away from the microscope,

he made the discovery that he could see the whole room

behind him, mirrored on the convex surface of the glass

tumbler. He thought no more of it, but the next time he

looked up his eyes were arrested by a scene that was now

unfolding behind him.

The assistant, who had gone over to fetch a tray of

slides, was whispering with the woman in the sari. It was

soon clear that it was him, Farley, they were talking about:

the distorted reflections of their faces seemed to take on a

grotesque and frightening quality as they nodded and

pointed across the room. Farley quickly lowered his head to

the microscope, while watching the glass out of the corner

of his eye.

What he saw next was even more startling than what had

passed before. At the end of the whispered conversation it

was not the young assistant but the woman who went over

to the stack of drawers by the wall; it was she who selected

the slides that were to be presented to him for examination.

Watching carefully, Farley saw her picking them out with a

speed that indicated she was not only thoroughly familiar

with the slides but knew exactly what they contained. Farley

could now barely restrain himself. His mind began to spill

over with questions: how had a woman, and an illiterate one

at that, acquired such expertise? And how had she

succeeded in keeping it secret from Cunningham? And how

was it that she, evidently untrained and unaware of any of

the principles on which such knowledge rested, had come to

exercise such authority over the assistant? The more he

reflected on it, the more convinced he became that she was

keeping something from him; that had she wished she could

have shown him what he was looking for, Laveran’s

parasite; and that she had chosen to deny it to him because,

for some unfathomable reason, she had judged him

unworthy.

Farley would now gladly have walked away from this

place, this so-called laboratory, whose all too familiar

instruments seemed to be turned to purposes as perverse as

they were inscrutable. Yet he knew that if he left now he

would for ever afterwards be tormented by uncertainty and

doubt. He had no option but to pursue his enquiry no matter

where it led.

And so Farley willed himself to stay where he was, with

his eye fixed upon the microscope, staring sightlessly at the

meaningless slides that were placed in front of him by the

young assistant. After a full half-hour had passed, he said to

the young man: ‘I have not seen any sign of the parasite

today, but I have it on good authority that it does indeed

exist. So I shall have a word with Cunningham-sahib, and

with his permission, I shall return tomorrow to continue my

researches.’

At this a look of utter consternation descended on the

assistant’s hitherto smiling face. Farley saw him shooting a

glance at the unnamed woman, who was watching them

keenly from the other end of the laboratory. Then he

launched upon a string of stammering protests: it was

unnecessary to return the next day; there was nothing to be

seen, it was just a pure waste of time, and anyway

Cunningham-sahib would be away; better return later, some

other day… in a fortnight, or a month hence, perhaps there

would be something to see then…

The vehemence of his protests were such as to confirm

Farley’s suspicions: the man could not have indicated more

clearly that he, and his silent companion across the room,

were keen to rid themselves of him; that his presence the

next day would disrupt some previously conceived

connivance, some event or events that they had already

planned, counting on Cunningham’s absence.

Perceiving that he now held the advantage, Farley

brushed past the pleading assistant, saying: ‘Nevertheless I

shall return tomorrow.’

With that he went to find Cunningham.

The Englishman was in the next room, seated on a chaise

longue, puffing dreamily on a long-handled pipe. When

Farley asked for his permission to continue the next day, he

blew out a plume of sweet-smelling smoke and cried: ‘Why,

certainly, my boy! If you are determined to persist in your

quest for this phantom of Laveran’s, do come back, as often

as you like. I’ll tell them to expect you.’

On the point of taking his leave, Farley hesitated. He

looked quickly about, to make sure that they were alone, and

then, approaching the seated Englishman, he dropped to his

knees.

‘If I may enquire, sir,’ he whispered in Cunningham’s ear,

‘under what circumstances did you admit this woman into

your laboratory?’

‘Mangala?’ said Cunningham, pointing his pipe-stem

over his shoulder.

‘If that is her name, yes.’

‘If you’re asking me how I found her,’ Cunningham said,

‘the answer is I found her where I find all my bearers and

assistants: at the new railway station—what do they call it?

—oh yes, Sealdah.’

‘At the railway station, sir?’ gasped the astonished

Farley.

‘Exactly so,’ said Cunningham. ‘That’s the place to go if

you need a willing worker: always said so—it’s full of people

looking for a job and a roof over their heads. See for yourself

the next time you’re there.’

‘But, sir,’ Farley exclaimed, ‘to take on untrained and

uneducated…’

‘And who better to train one’s assistants than oneself,

my boy?’ Cunningham countered. ‘Far preferable, in my

opinion, to being surrounded by over-eager and half-formed

college students. One is spared the task of imparting much

that is useless and unnecessary.’

‘So it was you who trained the woman—Mangala?’

Farley asked.

‘Indeed I did,’ said Cunningham, staring hazily into the

middle distance. ‘And a quicker pair of hands and eyes I had

never seen before. But…’

Pulling a long face, Cunningham tapped his head with a

finger. ‘But she’s not all there, you see,’ he said, ‘her mind’s

been wasted—by disease, or licentiousness or who knows

what?’

‘And the young man?’ Farley asked. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s not been here long,’ Cunningham said. ‘Mangala

brought him here: said he was from her own part of the

country.’

‘And where is that?’

‘Not far from where you are,’ Cunningham said. ‘I believe

the place is called Renupur—you may have passed it on

your way here.’

‘Why, yes,’ said Farley. ‘I passed through Renupur on

my way to Calcutta.’

Farley was just about to ask the assistant’s name when

he heard a sound behind him. He rose and found himself

looking directly at the woman, Mangala. She was glaring at

him from across the room, and such was the anger in her

gaze that it sent a chill down his back. As he made his way

out, he noticed that she was conducting a whispered

consultation with the young assistant.

Farley had barely reached the bamboo thicket in front of

the laboratory when he heard footsteps racing behind him.

Moments later the assistant caught up with him and asked in

a voice of polite, almost beseeching enquiry, exactly when it

was that he planned to come the next day. Determined to

retain the advantage of surprise, Farley gave him a

noncommittal reply: ‘I shall come when I find myself within

the vicinity. My arrival need not interrupt your work for the

day.’

With that he turned his back on the crestfallen assistant

and walked away.

Through much of the night, for no reason that he could

adduce, Farley prayed. Yet he could find no name for what it

was that faced him and why he feared it. And this in turn

became his very fear, that he could not name what he knew

he must confront. All next morning he stayed in his room,

touching neither food nor water, and did not emerge from his

cubicle until the hour was well past noon.

Thus, once again, it was late afternoon by the time he

arrived at the Hospital. But today, unlike the day before, the

sky was grey and overcast, and a strong wind was blowing

across the Maidan. Approaching the laboratory, Farley had

the feeling that the stands of bamboo that separated it from

the hospital were alive, astir with movement. And when he

stepped into the thicket he saw that there were indeed

shadows ahead of him, on the path: three figures, cloaked

and swathed, stumbling slowly towards the laboratory.

Farley stopped, overcome with misgiving, and then,

collecting himself he went forward again. When he was but a

few yards behind the figures, he saw that the little group

consisted of a man in a dhoti and a sari-clad woman. They

were bearing between them another, almost inert, human

figure. He approached them boldly, rattling his fob to make

his presence known.’ They stopped and turned to face him.

Farley’s eyes went immediately to the figure in the

middle. It was a man, possibly young, possibly in middle

age, it was impossible to tell, for the hooded face was

ravaged beyond description, the eyes turned upwards,

showing only the whites, the skin mottled, flecked with

scabs, the teeth in the open, drooling mouth sloping

towards the throat as though knocked backwards. Farley’s

glimpse of him was brief, but his diagnostic sense, honed by

months of practice in Barich, told him instantly that the man

was in the last stages of syphilitic dementia.

Overcome with pity, Farley stretched out a helping hand

towards the stricken man. But no sooner had the man’s

companions caught sight of him than they fled, melting

away into the darkness. Farley stared after them and then

headed down the path, to the laboratory.

When he was a few yards from the bungalow an

unexpected sound came to his ears: a low chant, sung in

unison by a number of voices. Slowing his pace, he listened

carefully. It was soon evident that the source of the sound

lay not in the bungalow but elsewhere. Looking carefully

around, through the trees and bamboo thickets, Farley saw

that a number of people had gathered around a low

outhouse, a short distance away. They were squatting in a

circle, around a fire, chanting to the accompaniment of hand-

held brass cymbals, as though in preparation for a ritual or

ceremony.

Curious now, he hurried towards the outhouse, but just

then the main door of the laboratory flew open and the

young assistant came running out. Under the guise of an

effusive welcome, he ushered Farley quickly towards the

laboratory.

Just as he was about to enter the laboratory, Farley

noticed a great deal of activity in a nearby anteroom. The

assistant tried to hurry him past but by dint of dragging his

feet Farley managed to steal a quick glance into the room.

The sight that met his eyes was so bewildering that he

uttered no protest when his guide manoeuvred him through

the laboratory door. What he saw was this: the woman

Mangala was seated at the far end of the room, on a low

divan, but alone and in an attitude of command, as though

enthroned. By her side were several small bamboo cages,

each containing a pigeon. Yet it was not the birds

themselves, but rather the state they were in that amazed

him. For they were slumped on the floors of their cages,

shivering, evidently near death.

Nor was that all. On the floor, by the divan, clustered

around the woman’s feet, were some half-dozen people in

various attitudes of supplication, some touching her feet,

others lying prostrate. Two or three others were huddled

against the wall, wrapped in blankets. Although Farley had

glanced into their scarred, unseeing faces for no more than

an instant, he recognized at once that they, like the man he

had seen in the bamboo thicket, were syphilitics, in the final

stages of the terrible disease.

Now the young assistant began once again to perform

the charade of the previous day, fetching slides, and

hurrying back and forth across the room as though egging

him on towards some extraordinary discovery. Farley did not

demur. He went mechanically about the business of

examining the slides they presented him, while his mind

remained fixed upon the extraordinary tableau he had

glimpsed outside.

If there was much that was bewildering about the strange

scenes outside, there was one aspect of it that was perfectly

comprehensible to Farley, from his own experience. More

than once in Barich he had found himself becoming the

reluctant repository of the last despairing hopes of a frantic

and fearful family that had arrived at the clinic’s doorstep

carrying a mortally ill relative through forests and over

mountains. He knew the faces of those people, the

beseeching supplication in their voices, the waning light of

hope in their eyes. His conscience called out to him to go

outside and tell them not to waste their hopes on whatever

quackery it was that this woman offered; to expose the

falsehoods that she and her minions had concocted to

deceive those simple people. It was his duty, he knew, to tell

them that mankind knew no cure for their condition; that this

false prophetess was cheating them of money they could ill

afford.

Yet he stayed where he was in the hope that with some

patience he would be able to see the matter through to the

end. Minute followed minute and hour followed hour, and

still he kept his eye fixed upon the microscope, pretending to

examine everything that was placed in front of him. As the

hours wore on, he could feel the impatience growing around

him; he could hear it in hurrying footsteps; he could feel it in

the eyes that were boring through his back, willing him to

leave so they could get on with whatever they had planned.

But he stayed at his place, unmoving, immobile, to all

appearances utterly absorbed in the slides.

Then at last, when the daylight had nearly faded, Farley

called out: ‘Bearer, kindly light the gas lamps. I have a great

deal more to do.’

At this the assistant began to expostulate: ‘But, sir, there

is nothing here, you will see nothing, you are simply wasting

your time, for no reason.’

Farley had been hoping and waiting for precisely such a

moment. Now, raising his voice, he said: ‘Hear me well: I

shall not leave this laboratory until I have seen the

transformations that Laveran described. I am willing to stay

here all night, if need be: I shall stay as long as I must.’

With that he lowered his head to the microscope once

again. But in the meanwhile he had taken the precaution of

placing the glass tumbler before him again, and now out of

the corner of his eyes he saw the assistant snatching up a

set of clean slides and slipping away to the anteroom.

Once he was gone, Farley made his way silently across

the laboratory. Flattening himself against the wall, he crept

towards the door until he had manoeuvred himself into a

position where he could look into the anteroom without

himself being detected.

Farley had steeled himself for anything, or so he thought,

but he was unprepared for what he saw next. First the

assistant went up to the woman, Mangala, still regally

ensconced on her divan, and touched his forehead to her

feet. Then in the manner of a courtier or acolyte he

whispered some word of advice in her ear. She nodded in

agreement and took the clean slides from him. Reaching for

the birdcages she allowed her hand to rest upon each of the

birds in turn, as though she were trying to ascertain

something. Then she seemed to come to a decision; she

reached into a cage, and took one of the shivering birds into

her lap. She folded her hands over it and her mouth began to

move as though muttering a prayer. Then suddenly a scalpel

appeared in her right hand; she held the bird away from her

and with a single flick of her wrist beheaded the dying

pigeon. Once the flow of blood had lessened, she picked up

the clean slides, smeared them across the severed neck, and

handed them to the assistant.

Farley had the presence of mind to go hurrying across

the room to his microscope. No sooner had he seated

himself than the young man came in.

‘Please examine these now, sir,’ he said with a wide smile.

‘Maybe you will at last achieve success in your quest.’

Farley turned the slides over his hand. ‘But,’ he said,

‘these are not properly stained: the blood on them is still

fresh.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the assistant, offhandedly. ‘Perhaps that

which you are looking for can only be seen in freshly drawn

blood.’

Farley placed the slide under the microscope and looked

into the instrument. At first he saw nothing unusual;

nothing that would have indicated to him, had he not

known, that this exhibit came from a pigeon. He noticed the

familiar granules of malarial pigment. But then suddenly he

saw movement; under his eyes amoeboid forms began to

squirm and move, undulating slowly across the glassy

surface. Then all at once there was a flurry of movement and

they began to disintegrate: it was then that he saw

Laveran’s rods appear, hundreds of them, tiny cylindrical

things, with their pointed, penetrating heads piercing the

bloody miasma.

The sweat began to drip off Farley’s forehead now, as he

watched the horned creatures burrowing, writhing, wriggling

in frantic search. His breath grew laboured; his head began

to spin. He sat up, gasping, the sight of these wilful,

struggling creatures still vivid in his eyes. His gaze strayed

to the window, and discovered a row of faces lined up

against the glass, watching him, as he squirmed in his seat,

mopping his brow. His eyes locked with Mangala’s; she was

standing in front of all the others, staring at him, smiling to

herself. Clutched in her hand, in full view, was the body of

the decapitated bird, the blood still oozing from its macabre

wound.

‘Tell him,’ the woman said with a mocking smile, ‘tell him

that what he sees is the creature’s member entering the body

of its mate, doing what men and women must do…’

And here, at this point of revelation, which shows that

Farley had already arrived at the conclusion that was to

make his erstwhile team-mate famous, the narrative ends. For

now, unable to contain himself any longer, Farley flung the

slides at the woman and stalked quickly out of the

laboratory.

But before franking the letter for the post, next morning,

Farley added a few scribbled lines in the margin: ‘In haste:

much that I feared has been confirmed in these last hours.

Shortly before matins, there was a knock on my door: it was

Cunningham’s young assistant. He told me—oh so many

things—I shall write of them all to you in time. Suffice it to

say for the present, that everything is other than what it

appears to be, a phantom of itself. The young man has

promised to reveal everything to me if I would but

accompany him to his birthplace. Fortunately the place of

which he spoke is not far from the location of my clinic. We

are to leave tomorrow: I shall write again and in greater

detail, dear friend, once I know more…’

But Elijah Farley never reached Barich: he disappeared

during the journey, never to be seen again. The police

discovered that he had indeed boarded the train at Sealdah,

as scheduled, but had disembarked before his destination—

at a remote, rarely used station called Renupur, in severe

monsoon weather. A guard was said to have reported later

that a young man had been seen carrying his luggage.

Abruptly Ava began to beep: Rest indecipherable, unable

to continue…

■

■

■

twenty-two

MURUGAN could not get to sleep. Sweltering under the

mosquito net, he lay awake, watching the ceiling fan beat the

heavy monsoon air, its stubby blades flashing hypnotically

in the thin crack of light that was shining through the

stubbornly unfastenable balcony door. The bedclothes had

bunched up around his waist in moist, sweat-soaked

clusters. Taking off his vest, he rolled it into a ball and

dropped it out of the mosquito net. He was naked now,

except for his cotton boxer shorts.

The generator was still pounding away at the wedding

down the road. The music seemed even louder now. But

somehow, despite all that noise, he could hear the

mosquitoes clearly, droning patiently around the bed,

testing for openings, gathering in excitement every time a

hand or a foot brushed against the fabric. Soon he couldn’t

tell whether the buzz was inside the net or outside; whether

the tingling in his limbs came from their interrupted probings

or the chafing of the moist sheets.

He flattened himself against the mattress and tried to lie

still. Spread-eagling his arms and legs he waited—waited to

discover whether they were really inside the net; whether his

inflamed skin would allow him to discern the feel of their

bites.

It was strangely intimate to lie there like that, against

damp cloth, spread out in that elementally open posture of

invitation, of embrace, of longing. When he looked down at

his body, lying flat on the bed, he could not tell whether he

was waiting for them to show themselves to him, or whether

he was showing himself to them: displaying himself in those

minute detailed ways that only they were small enough to

see, to understand, because only they had eyes that were

designed to see not the whole but the parts, each in its

uniqueness. Involuntarily he flexed his shoulders, arching

his back, offering himself up, waiting to discover where they

would touch him first, where he would first detect the

tingling prick of their bites, on his chest or his belly, on the

muscle of his forearm or the weathered codpiece of his

elbow.

The fan became a blur; the mosquito net melted into a

milky fog. He was floating outside it now, looking in, at

people he knew, knew very well, even if only through books

and papers. And now he was in again, inside the net; he was

one of them too, lying on a hard hospital charpoy, stripped,

naked, watching the English doctor uncork a test tube full of

mosquitoes into his net. In his fist he still clutched the coins

he had been given at the hospital gates. He held on to them

tightly, savouring their feel, their reassurance; they were so

cool to the touch, so hard edged; they made everything so

simple, so clean: a handful of coins, a rupee, for handing on

the thing that lived in his blood, for safekeeping, to the

doctor.

He saw faces around his bed now, rippling, like reeds,

beyond the surface of the mosquito net, faces that were

watching him, studying his body, as it lay there in its urgent

nakedness; faces he knew, or recognized, a grey-haired

woman smiling through twinkling bifocals; a gap-toothed

boy, grinning, circling the bed; an old man with tears in his

eyes, peering at him in the darkness; a thin, young woman,

holding hands with her friend. They were standing around

his bed in attitudes of concern, like nurses and doctors’

assistants, waiting for him to sink into anaesthetized

oblivion.

And now the bearded Englishman reappears, dressed in

his white coat, smoking a cigar, armed with half a dozen test

tubes; he reaches in, with a little butterfly net, pulls it out

and expertly traps an engorged mosquito in a test tube,

covering the opening with a handkerchief-wrapped thumb.

He holds up the test tube and shows it to the others and

they clap; they are excited, full of encouragement.

The Englishman draws mightily on his cigar and puffs

into the test tube; the insect dies, the tiny buzzing creature

that is carrying his blood inside it. The doctor holds it up

and shows it to the others, they reach for it eagerly; they

want to see it for themselves; this extrusion of his flesh, and

in their eagerness the test tube slips from their fingers, falls

to the floor, shatters, filling the room with a thin tinkle of

breaking glass.

Murugan sat suddenly upright, the sweat pouring off his

face, not sure whether he was still dreaming or awake. The

net was buzzing with mosquitoes; he could see them

dancing like motes, in the finger of light that bisected his

bed. His whole body was aflame, covered with bites. He had

been scratching himself furiously in his sleep; he could see

blood on his fingernails, and on the sheets.

He climbed out of the bed and walked around the room,

scratching hard. The air was heavy with the smell of his own

sweat. He opened the door and stepped out on to the

balcony.

The street below was empty now, but the generator was

still running in the building down the street. The archway at

the entrance to the wedding seemed brighter than ever,

flooding the street with light. Relays of workers were

running back and forth through the entrance, loading their

bamboo handcarts with stacks of folding chairs and tables.

Suddenly, with a squeal of rubber, a taxi came shooting

around the Rawdon Street corner and stopped at the gates

of the old mansion at number three. A woman in a sari

stepped out. She was too far away for Murugan to get a look

at her face, but the light from the wedding arch was just

strong enough to give him a glimpse of a streak of white,

running through her hair. Taking a key out of her purse, she

unlocked the gates and went in.

Murugan waited a minute to see if she would come out

again and then went back into the bedroom. He was getting

into bed when he heard the click of a closing door

somewhere near at hand. Getting out of bed, he stuck his

head into the corridor. The flat was dark and still. He fetched

a torch and made his way across the drawing room to Mrs

Aratounian’s bedroom. Lowering himself on one knee,

beside the closed door, he put his ear to the crack. He heard

a soft, rhythmic sound inside: like gentle snoring—or

possibly a fan. It was hard to be sure.

Murugan hesitated, wondering whether he ought to make

sure that Mrs Aratounian was all right. He decided against

and tiptoed quickly back to his bedroom. Just as he was

about to step through the door he felt a sharp stabbing pain

in his right foot.

Swearing softly, he stooped to investigate. There was a

small gash in his heel. He had cut it on a sharp object,

something that was lying on the floor, glinting in the half-

light.

He picked it up and looked at it. It was an inch-long shard

of thin glass, probably from some kind of tube.

■

■

■

twenty-three

IT WAS PAST ONE when Sonali decided to go looking for

Romen: she couldn’t keep still and sleep was out of the

question.

Fortunately, at exactly the right moment, one of her

neighbours came home from a party, in a taxi. Snatching up

her handbag, Sonali ran down and jumped in, without really

giving any thought to where she would go. On an impulse,

recalling Romen’s overheard conversation at the gates of

the Wicket Club, she told the taxi driver to go to Robinson

Street.

She couldn’t think of what Romen might be doing there at

this time of the night. Yet somehow, when the taxi stopped

at the gates of the old house she had an inexplicable feeling

that Romen was inside. Fortunately he’d left behind a set of

keys at her flat a few days ago: she’d put it in her handbag

and forgotten to give it back.

She managed to find the key to the gate, but once she

was in she wasn’t sure of what to do next. She made her way

down the gravel path, to the portico, and looked in through

the door. It was very dark inside; she couldn’t see very far.

Cupping her hands, she shouted: ‘Romen, are you there?’

She wasn’t surprised when there was no answer: a

generator was making a terrific noise next door. She could

hardly hear her voice herself.

She always carried a small torch in her handbag, for

power cuts. She took it out and shone the light into the vast

hallway ahead. The beam circled slowly through the

darkness, picking out randomly scattered piles of

mattresses, charpoys and battered cooking utensils.

Romen had brought Sonali to the house once, a few

months before,’ to show off his new acquisition. The

hallway was full of people then, cooking, eating, sleeping,

feeding their children. The entire construction gang was

living in the gutted shell of the house. They were from Nepal

and there were about thirty of them altogether, not including

the old women who had been brought along to look after the

children. They cooked their meals in a paved courtyard at

the back and slept in the hallways and under the portico,

spreading out their mattresses and charpoys wherever they

could. They were all related, Romen had told her, sons,

grandsons, daughters-in-law, sons, wives, mothers, aunts: a

whole village on the move.

She looked around once again, peering into the uneasy

shadows that skimmed over the murky gloom of the hallway.

Their belongings were all there, just as she remembered, but

none of them seemed to be anywhere in sight.

Crossing the threshold, she took a few tentative steps

into the hall. Then she caught a whiff of an odd smell and

came to a sudden halt. It smelled like smoke at first, and she

had a moment of panic, wondering whether there was a fire

somewhere within. She sniffed the air again, and was startled

to catch the distinctive odour of incense, the sweet, acrid

smell of burning camphor. It was sweeping into the hall in

clouds, from somewhere at the back.

She took a few more steps into the darkness, and now her

ears, growing accustomed to the mechanical roar next door,

picked up another sound: a hollow, rhythmic noise just

distinguishable from the throbbing of the generator—a

sound of drumming, familiar from pujas and festival days,

when drums pounded in worship all over the city.

The sound grew louder as Sonali approached the grand

ceremonial staircase that lay at the back of the hall.

Suddenly the curved banisters were in front of her, their

ragged, splintered rails wreathed in smoke. Shining the torch

upwards she saw that smoke was pouring into the stairwell

from above. It hung thick around her, diffusing the beam of

the torch into a milk-white glow.

The staircase was a rusted shell; the last time she saw it

the workers had just begun the job of stripping it down to

the steel scaffolding, as a preliminary to restoring it to its

original glory, when it had swept upwards in a grand curve

of mahogany and wrought iron. ‘The structure is still

sound,’ Romen had told her. She had followed him gingerly,

stepping from foothold to foothold, and had counted herself

lucky when she made it to the top without a fall. Looking at

it now, curling up into the smoke, like a gigantic vine, she

shied away, wiping her watering eyes. Then, making up her

mind, she took a grip on the banisters and pulled herself up

a couple of steps.

She stood on a steel rail and shone the torch ahead until

it fell upon a length of rusty metal, lying exposed under a

plank of rotten wood, a couple of steps further up. That was

what Romen had said to do, she remembered now: don’t

step on the wood—keep to the steel frame. She leaned

forward and jumped. Her foot slipped but she managed to

catch hold of the banisters. Trying not to look down, she

shut her eyes and breathed deeply, struggling to steady

herself. She climbed crablike to the next foothold, biting the

torch between her teeth, using her hands as well as her feet.

She went up the next few steps the same way, rounding the

curve of the staircase. After a few more steps she stopped to

catch her breath and pointed the torch ahead. The landing at

the top of the staircase was no more than a few yards away

now. The drumming seemed very close; she could feel it

reverberating in the metal, under her hands and feet. When

her hand reached the landing she took the torch out of her

mouth and placed it on a ledge. She heaved herself up and

collapsed on the floorboards.

The drumming was all around her now, so loud and close

that she could not tell which direction it was coming from.

As she was turning to look, her sari brushed against the

torch and knocked it over. It rolled a couple of inches,

eluding her hand, and fell off the edge of the landing. She

watched as it went spinning down the stairwell, its beam

circling around the hall until it hit the floor and went out.

Stifling a sob, she sat up. She began to pat the

floorboards around her, trying to orient herself, swivelling all

the way around, banging her hands on the splintering wood.

Then it dawned on her that she no longer knew which way

she was facing—towards the staircase or away from it: her

disorientation was complete.

She could feel her chest constricting. She knew she

would panic if she stayed on the floor any longer, flailing

about, blinded by sweat and smoke, deafened by the noise.

She climbed to her feet and saw a dull orange glow

somewhere ahead of her, within the whirling clouds of

smoke. She took a step towards it and then lowered herself

to her hands and knees. She couldn’t trust herself to walk on

the rotten floor and began to crawl instead, inching slowly

towards the glow, shutting her eyes against the stinging

smoke.

When she had advanced a couple of yards, she saw that

the light was shining out of an arched doorway. Now

suddenly she knew where she was: she was facing the

entrance to the largest room in the house, a huge wood-

panelled mirrored chamber that had once served as a

reception room. Ramen had insisted on bringing her up to

see it—it was the pride of the house, he said, and he was

going to restore it to its former state.

She pushed herself closer to the archway and figures

began to take shape in the smoky glow ahead of her. They

were sitting crosslegged on the floor, with their backs to her,

facing in the other direction. She saw a couple of heads first,

and then more, and more, until the whole room seemed to be

filled with people. They were chanting something and some

were keeping time with drums while others were beating little

hand-held cymbals.

She could not bring herself to go forward and there was

no going back; she would never be able to find her way

down without the torch. Then she remembered something

that Romen had showed her on their visit: the reception

room had a small raised gallery at the back, a minstrel gallery

Romen had called it. He had led her up to it, to show her how

immense the room looked from up there. She tried to calm

herself now, to think back to that day, several months ago.

They had reached the gallery by climbing up a narrow, steep

staircase, almost like a ladder. Sonali made an effort to calm

herself so she could recall where those stairs were.

She crept forward another yard or so and spotted the

entrance to a little anteroom to her right. Edging towards it,

she drew level with the entrance and glanced in. At the far

corner, she spotted the opening that led to the gallery,

glowing orange against the velvety darkness of the room.

There were no people in the anteroom, so far as she could

tell.

She slipped around the corner and rose to her feet. Then

she edged along the wall, with one arm stretched out until

her hand hit upon the cold metal of the stepladder. She

stepped back and looked at the opening to the gallery: it was

directly above her now. All she could see was the flickering

orange glow of a fire, reflected through clouds of smoke.

She took a grip on the ladder and climbed quickly up. At

the top, the smoke suddenly welled up in her face, forcing

itself into her lungs. She stuffed the end of her sari into (her

mouth, in an effort to choke back a cough, and looked in.

The narrow, flimsy looking gallery was empty. Pulling her

feet up, she sank down and flattened herself on the floor of

the gallery. She noticed now that the smoke was even

thicker here than it was below; trapped by the ceiling, it

swirled around the gallery in dense clouds. Lowering her

face, she held her sari pressed against her watering eyes.

They were smarting so much now that she knew she would

not be able to keep them open for more than a few seconds

at a time.

When the stinging had dulled a little, she thrust her head

to the edge and looked down. She caught a glimpse of the

tops of dozens of heads, some male, some female, young

and old, packed in close together. Their faces were obscured

by the smoke and flickering firelight but she spotted a

couple of weatherbeaten Nepali faces that she was sure she

had seen before, when Ramen last brought her to the house.

For the rest it seemed like a strangely motley assortment of

people: men in patched lungis, a handful of brightly painted

women in cheap nylon saris, a few young students, several

prim-looking middle-class women—people you would never

expect to see together.

Narrowing her eyes against the smoke, Sonali followed

their gaze to the fire, burning at the far end of the room: a

heap of coal-dust was glowing red in a brazier, improvised

from a battered cement pan. Then she had a shock:

somewhere among the faces around the fire she spotted a

face she knew. She looked again: it was a skeletally thin boy

in a T-shirt. Sonali reeled: it was the boy who had been

living in her servant’s room for the last few months, there

could be no doubt about it. He was smiling, saying

something to the person next to him.

There was a small clearing in front and every now and

again the boy and the others around him would reach in and

touch something. Sonali could not see what it was: her view

was blocked by several closely packed heads. The crowd

was bunched thickly around whatever it was that was lying

there; everybody in the room seemed to be staring at that

space.

Sonali shut her smarting eyes and let her head drop to the

floor. Her sari was drenched and she could barely move her

limbs. The floor seemed to turn under her: she knew she was

very close to losing consciousness.

Then there was a stir in the crowd and Sonali forced

herself to look down again. A figure had come out of the

shadows: it was a woman and she was dressed very plainly

—in a crisply starched sari, with a white scarf tied around

her hair. Her figure was short and matronly and Sonali took

her to be in late middle age. She looked very familiar; Sonali

was certain she was someone she had once known but

hadn’t seen in years.

She had a cloth bag slung over one shoulder, an ordinary

cotton jhola, of the kind that every student takes to college.

In her left hand she was carrying a bamboo birdcage. She

seated herself by the fire and placed the bag and the

birdcage beside her. Then, reaching into the bag, her

movements brisk and businesslike, she took out two

scalpels and a pair of glass plates.

She arranged the plates and the scalpel in front of her, on

a piece of white cloth, and reached into her bag again. She

took out a small clay figure and touched it to her forehead,

before setting it down beside her. Then she reached out,

placed her hands on whatever it was that was lying before

the fire and smiled—a look of extraordinary sweetness came

over her face.

Raising her voice, the woman said to the crowd, in

archaic rustic Bengali: ‘The time is here, pray that all goes

well for our Laakhan, once again.’

Suddenly Sonali was struck by a terrible sense of

foreboding. Raising her head as high as she dared she

looked again into the space by the fire. She caught a glimpse

of a body, lying on the floor.

The drumming rose to a crescendo: there was a flash of

bright metal and a necklace of blood flew up and fell sizzling

on the fire.

Sonali’s head crashed to the floor and everything went

dark.

■

■

■

the day after

■

■

■

twenty-four

IT WAS seven fifteen in the morning and Urmila was

nearing the end of her tether. She was in the kitchen,

grinding spices, perspiration dripping off her face on to her

grease-spotted sari. She had already been up an hour: she

had given her parents their breakfast; she had cleaned the

kitchen; she had fed and bathed her nephew and niece; she

had washed her younger brother’s uniform for his afternoon

football match. She would have to leave within the hour if

she was to be on time for the press conference at the Great

Eastern Hotel. But there was still the business of the fish to

deal with, and there was no sign of a fish-seller yet.

Urmila looked out of the kitchen window, trying to

estimate how long it would take her to run to Gariahat Bazaar

and back. She was in trouble, she knew, unless something

miraculous happened soon: it would take at least half an

hour if she had to go down to the bazaar, what with picking

out a fish and bargaining and all the rest—there was no way

around that.

The flat was on the third floor, boxed in on every side by

other multi-storey buildings. The kitchen window was the

only part of the flat that had a view, other than the balcony.

It commanded a glimpse of a sliver of the city: she could see

the ragged, spreading skyline of south Calcutta stretching

away longitudinally, from the park below—a vista of mildew-

darkened roofs vanishing into the smudged glow of a

lowering monsoon sky.

Down below, in the park, the usual half-dozen cricket

matches were already in progress. She could hear the thud

of wood on leather and a few drowsy voices, shouting

encouragement. In another corner of the park half a dozen

men were busy swinging clubs and doing push-ups, below

the tin roof of a body-building school. Further away,

RashBehari Avenue was stirring in anticipation of rush hour.

But the roadsides were still relatively empty except for a few

shoppers hurrying back from Gariahat Bazaar, along the

short-cut, with clumps of vegetables hanging over the tops

of their nylon shopping bags.

The short-cut to Gariahat Bazaar curved off from the main

avenue a few hundred yards away. It was a long, narrow

lane whose principal landmark was a rambling, old-fashioned

house, with a gravel driveway, a pillared portico and a well-

tended garden. The house was clearly visible from the

kitchen: Urmila’s eyes often fell on it when she was working

there. It was Romen Haldar’s residence.

Just then the doorbell rang.

‘The bell’s ringing, Urmi,’ her mother called out from her

bedroom. ‘Can’t you hear it?’

Her father was out on the balcony with his paper, going

through the Announcements column, a favourite morning

pastime. He was reading the entries out aloud to himself,

spitting out the names like chewed fish-bones. He put the

paper on his knees and looked up. ‘Who is it?’ he called out.

‘Someone go and have a look.’

Almost immediately her sister-in-law’s voice came

floating out of her bedroom: she was feeding her baby and

couldn’t get out of bed. Her older brother had already left to

catch a morning train. Her younger brother was in the

bathroom, snapping his fingers and singing, ‘Disco diwana’.

Then her mother called out, in her softest, most cajoling

voice: ‘Go and have a look, Urmi, no one will if you don’t…’

I’m busy here! she wanted to scream. Can’t you see; I’m

busy here, trying to get things ready before going to

work…?

The doorbell rang again and now her six-year-old nephew

ran into the kitchen and began to tug at her sari. ‘Open the

door, Urmi-pishi,’ sang the boy. ‘Urmi-pishi-kirmi-pishi, open

the door, open the door…’

She slammed the heavy pestle on the pitted surface of the

mortar, brilliantly coloured now with turmeric and chili, and

pushed past her nephew, who was lying flat on the floor.

The boy stretched out his hands as she went by and

fastened his fingers on the bottom of her sari. She dragged

him along for a couple of paces and then slapped his

clenched fist.

He erupted into a wail and went racing to his parents’

bedroom, crying: ‘She hit me, she hit me, kirmi-pishi hit

me…’

As she undid the doorlatch, Urmila heard her sister-in-

law’s voice break into a scream: ‘How dare you hit my son?’

She flung the door open and found a young man

standing outside, beside a large covered basket. She had

never seen him before; he looked very young to be a

vendor. He was dressed in a lungi and a greying T-shirt.

‘You slut,’ the voice followed Urmila through the open

doorway. ‘You think I don’t know what you’re up to, coming

home late every night? I’ll teach you a lesson; I’ll teach you

to hit my children…’

Urmila stepped out and slammed the door behind her.

Embarrassment lent a note of shrillness to her voice as she

snapped: ‘What’s the matter? What do you want?’

The young man gave her a cheerful grin, exposing a wide

gap in his front teeth. Urmila was suddenly ashamed,

mortified at the thought that she had allowed her sister-in-

law to provoke her in front of a complete stranger.

Inadvertently, she drew the back of her hand across her

forehead. Her face contorted into a grimace as the ground

spices burnt a smarting furrow across her face and brow.

She wiped her eyes hurriedly with the end of her sari.

‘What do you want?’ she said again, more evenly.

The young man was squatting beside the basket now.

With another smile he pulled back a layer of paper and

plastic to reveal a pile of fish, gleaming silver in the early-

morning light.

He grinned. ‘I just came to ask whether you need any fish

this morning, didi,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

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■

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■

twenty-five

‘I’VE NEVER SEEN YOU here before,’ Urmila said, kneeling

beside the basket of fish. She began to examine the fish,

pulling back their gills—out of habit, for today she really

didn’t care what she bought or for how much.

The young fish-seller gave her a cheerful smile, bobbing

his head. ‘I’ll be coming regularly now,’ he said. ‘Buy one

and see: I have the best fish in the market, fresh out of the

water.’

‘Every fish-seller says that,’ said Urmila. ‘It doesn’t mean

a thing.’

The fish-seller bristled. ‘If you don’t believe me, go and

ask around,’ he said. ‘I sell to all the best houses. Why, do

you know Romen Haldar’s house, in the next lane?’

Urmila looked up, raising an eyebrow.

‘Let me tell you,’ he said proudly. ‘They buy all their fish

from me. Only from me: you can go and ask if you like.’

Reaching into the basket he moved a couple of fish out of

the way. ‘Here, let me show you something,’ he said. ‘Do

you see this one here, this big ilish? I’m keeping that for

them. I’m on my way there right now. I told them I’d bring

them something special this morning.’

‘I’ll take it,’ said Urmila.

The fish-seller shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, grinning. ‘I

can’t give you that one: that’s for them. But I’ll give you this

other one, it’s just as good—here, look.’

Urmila gave him a perfunctory nod. ‘All right,’ she said,

‘that one.’ She told him to cut it up and went in to fetch her

purse. By the time she came back, the fish-seller had a

packet ready for her: he had wrapped the fish in bits of paper

and stuffed it into a plastic bag.

Urmila clicked her tongue in annoyance when she saw

the packet. ‘You shouldn’t have wrapped it up,’ she said.

The fish-seller mumbled an excuse and began counting

his money. Urmila went inside. She had no time to lose now.

Hurrying into the kitchen she tipped the contents of the

packet onto a plastic plate, in the sink. The chunks of fish

fell out with a thump, scattering all over the sink. Urmila

grimaced: the paper in which the fish was wrapped had

turned into a soggy mess. She touched a piece of fish

gingerly and the tip of her finger came away with a bit of

paper attached. She had trouble shaking it off; it had

dissolved into a wad of sticky glue.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she stole a quick glance

out of the window. RashBehari Avenue was jammed with

buses and minibuses, all belching thick clouds of smoke.

She had no more than half an hour to spare if she was to get

to the Great Eastern Hotel in time for the press conference.

She began to scrub furiously.

After a few minutes she realized that her scrubbing was

only making matters worse by working the paper deeper into

the chunks of fish. She threw up her hands, thoroughly

irritated now, and peeled a scrap of paper off her fingers. It

was thin, cheap Xerox paper: the kind that accumulated in

vast quantities in the Calcutta copying room.

So this is where it all ends up, she thought, as fish-

wrapping.

She glanced at the plastic bag again and saw that it was

still full of paper. A few bits and pieces were dry; the blood

hadn’t seeped through to them yet. She tipped the paper out

on the counter and held a sheet flat with the back of her

hand.

It was a large, legal-size photocopy of a page of very fine

English newsprint. The typeface was unfamiliar, old

fashioned: she knew at a glance that the page wasn’t from

any of the current English-language papers printed in

Calcutta. She made space for it on a shelf and spread it out.

The print was so fine she had trouble reading it. She

turned on a light and looked at it again, turning instinctively

to the top margin to look for the paper’s name. The

masthead said The Colonial Services Gazette, in beautiful

Gothic characters. Beside the name was a dateline: ‘Calcutta,

the twelfth of January, 1898.’

The page was divided into eight columns, each

containing dozens of announcements of a routine kind: ‘D.

Attwater, Esq. transferred to Almora as Deputy Magistrate,

Revenues’, ‘So-and-so to quit his post in the Port Authority,

Calcutta, in order to become Assistant Harbourmaster in

Singapore’ and so on. Urmila skimmed quickly through it.

She could not see why anyone would go to the trouble of

copying something like that, a record of old bureaucratic

appointments. She was about to sweep it into the wastebin

when she noticed that one of the announcements had been

underlined, in ink.

Squinting at the page she read: ‘Leave approved for

Surgeon-Colonel D. D. Cunningham, Presidency General

Hospital, Calcutta, 10-15 January…’

Urmila cast a quick glance at the clock above the dining

table. She really had no time to lose now, not a minute; if she

didn’t get the fish done in the next ten minutes she would be

late for the press conference.

She knew she ought to get on with the cooking. But

instead she found herself pulling out the two other bits of

paper left in the plastic bag.

The next page was even more puzzling than the first. It

was a copy of a sheet of paper with a list of names under an

elaborate and unfamiliar logo. Holding the logo up to the

light, she saw that it said ‘South-Western Railways’.

Handwritten beneath it were the words: ‘10 January 1898,

Passenger list, Compartment 8’. Under this was a list of

names. Urmila looked quickly through them; they seemed

like British names. She read a couple of them to herself,

spelling them out slowly: Major Evelyn Urquhart, D. Craven,

Esq., Sir Andrew Acton…’ Then she noticed that a name at

the bottom of the list had been underlined. It was: ‘C. C.

Dunn, Esq.’.

That’s strange, she thought. The other name was D. D.

something.

She didn’t bother to look. She pushed the page aside and

spread out the only remaining sheet.

It was a copy of another page of The Colonial Services

Gazette. This one was dated 30 January 1898. She cast a

quick glance over it: another long list of transfers, leaves

approved, positions filled. Again one of the announcements

was underlined. It read: ‘The public is notified that Surgeon-

Colonel D. D. Cunningham is currently on leave pending his

retirement. He will be replaced by Surgeon-Major Ronald

Ross of the Indian Medical Service.’

‘Haven’t you started cooking yet, Urmi?’ her mother

called out from the bedroom. ‘It’s getting late.’

Urmila started. She was furious with herself now for

wasting so much time staring at used Xerox paper. She

snatched the sheets off the shelf, flung them aside and

hurried over to the sink.

The paper-wrapped fish had turned into a stinking,

glutinous mess. It was all she could do not to vomit into the

sink.

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■

■

■

twenty-six

SUDDENLY URMILA found herself shaking with

indignation. She knew she was on the verge of one of those

periodic seizures of outrage which sometimes gripped her

when she was working on her investigative articles. She was

so angry now that she stopped caring about the time—

about the press conference at the Great Eastern, the news

editor, even the Minister of Communications from Delhi. She

stuffed the pieces of fish back into the plastic bag and

marched to the door. On her way out she snatched up the

sheets of Xerox paper, crumpling them into a ball, in her fist.

Her mother had come out of her bedroom to see what the

matter was. Her mouth fell open, seeing Urmila marching out

of the flat in her grease-spattered sari, clutching a ball of

paper and a bag of fish. ‘Where are you going, Urmi?’ she

cried.

‘I’m going to return this fish,’ Urmila said, letting herself

out. ‘We can’t eat this: it’ll kill us. Look at this filthy paper

it’s wrapped in. I’m going to make that man take it back: I

paid more than a hundred rupees for this fish. I’m not going

to be cheated like this.’

The front door of their flat opened on a narrow, corridor-

like veranda that served three other apartments beside their

own. Urmila was certain she would find the fish-seller

outside, knocking on the doors of the other flats. But the

veranda was empty: she looked to her right and then to her

left. There was no sign of the young man with the basket of

fish.

Urmila stood undecided for a moment and then she went

to the neighbouring door and rang the bell. Several minutes

later the door opened and a middle-aged man dressed in

pyjamas and a cotton vest looked out suspiciously. ‘Yes?’

he said. ‘What do you want?’

Urmila was momentarily at a loss for words: a long history

of disputes and quarrels lay between this family and hers.

Trying to smile, she said: ‘Did a fish-seller ring your bell this

morning? A young man in a T-shirt and a checked lungi?’

The man looked her over sardonically, his eyes travelling

slowly from the plastic bag stuffed with fish to her crumpled

spice-stained sari.

Urmila held her ground. ‘Did you see him?’ she said

again.

‘No,’ said the man. ‘We were asleep until you rang the

bell.’

‘What?’ said Urmila. ‘The fish-seller didn’t come here?

With the basket…’

‘What did I tell you?’ the man snapped. ‘Didn’t I tell you

we were fast asleep?’ He slammed the door on her.

Urmila ran up one flight to the fourth floor, the highest in

the building. The floors in their building were exactly alike,

each with four identical flats, lined up next to each other

along an open veranda. There was no sign of the fish-seller

on the fourth floor. She turned and went pelting down,

stopping at each landing to look up and down the long

verandas. The man wasn’t anywhere in the building so far as

she could tell. She checked the veranda on the ground floor

twice, and then ran out to the small paan shop on the

pavement, near the entrance to the building.

The stall-owner was sitting cross-legged on the counter,

saying a prayer before starting the day’s work. She had to

wait until he opened one eye. ‘What’s this?’ he said, in

surprise, staring at her dishevelled hair and her crumpled

night-time sari. ‘Why are you outside in this state?’

She asked him about the fish-seller, and he shook his

head: ‘No, I haven’t seen anyone; I’ve just got here, as you

can see.’

She turned on her heel and headed down the road.

‘Where are you going?’ the paan-wallah called after her.

‘I’m not going to let that man rob me in broad daylight,’

she said. ‘I’m going to find him and get my money back.’

The paan-wallah gave a derisory laugh. ‘It’s no use,’ he

said. ‘Those vendors are too clever for the likes of you.’

‘We’ll see!’ Urmila shouted back, over her shoulder.

RashBehari was thronged with its usual morning crowd

of pedestrians, some hurrying towards Lansdowne, some

towards Gariahat. People turned to stare at Urmila as she

went marching along swinging her clenched fists. There

were a few jeers and catcalls from loiterers, standing against

the railings and squatting by the road. Urmila walked on,

oblivious of her soiled sari and her soggy bag of fish.

She turned into a lane, off RashBehari, and almost before

she knew it she was standing before a pair of tall wrought-

iron gates. A portly chowkidar in khaki uniform was on

guard at the gate. Right above him was an elaborately

carved marble nameplate, set deep in the wall. It bore the

name ‘Romen Haldar’ written in richly ornamented, cursive

Bengali.

The chowkidar looked her up and down, suspiciously.

‘What’s your business here?’ he said, placing himself in

front of her, rapping his stick on his thigh.

Urmila pushed him aside, barely pausing in her stride.

‘You don’t need to concern yourself with my business,’ she

said. ‘You stay where you are and think about your own

business.’

She marched off, down the driveway towards the covered

porch that led into the house. The chowkidar gave chase,

waving his stick and shouting: ‘Stop: You can’t go in.’

‘Tell me something,’ Urmila threw back at him, over her

shoulder. ‘Did the fish-seller come here today?’

‘What fish-seller?’ said the chowkidar. ‘We don’t have

any fish-sellers coming here. Do you know whose house

this is?’

‘Yes,’ said Urmila.

With a sudden burst of speed, the chowkidar ran around

her, trying to block the driveway. But Urmila was used to

forcing her way past doorkeepers and secretaries; he was no

match for her. She stepped around him, unimpressed. He

followed, mouthing imprecations.

The chowkidar’s shouts caused a stir inside the house.

An elderly man appeared on the porch, pen in hand, dressed

in a starched white kurta and dhoti. ‘What’s the matter?’ he

demanded, peering irritably down the driveway.

He spotted Urmila and a frown appeared on his forehead.

‘Yes, what is it?’ he said, looking her over distastefully.

‘What do you want? No appointments today—all

appointments have been cancelled.’

Urmila ignored him. ‘I want to see Mr Romen Haldar,’ she

said.

The secretary glowered at her, over the rim of his

spectacles. ‘What business do you have with Mr Haldar?’

he asked.

‘I want to ask him about a fish-seller who came to my flat

this morning,’ Urmila said defiantly.

The secretary’s jaw dropped. ‘Fish-seller?’ he said.

‘What fish-seller?’

‘A young man,’ Urmila said. She tried to describe him but

all she could recall of his appearance was a fading T-shirt

and a big, gap-toothed grin. ‘He sells fish here regularly,’

she said. ‘He was on his way here right now; he told me so.’

She lifted up the packet of fish and held it out towards

the secretary. ‘Look: he sold me this just this morning.’

The secretary recoiled. ‘Keep that filthy thing away from

me,’ he cried, snatching back a spotless, cotton-clothed arm.

‘What nonsense is this? No fish-seller has set foot in this

house for years.’

‘He told me that he sold fish to Mr Haldar.’

‘He was lying,’ said the secretary.

Urmila stared at him, her head reeling. ‘But the man told

me…’ she began.

The secretary made an impatient gesture. ‘Enough,’ he

said. ‘You can be off now.’

Urmila’s tone hardened. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I will not leave

until I see Mr Haldar himself.’

‘I see,’ said the secretary. Raising a hand, he made a sign

to the chowkidar, who was standing at the door. ‘Shyam

Bahadur,’ he said. ‘Show this lady the way out.’

Urmila pointed a finger at him, looking him directly in the

eyes. ‘I don’t think you know who I am,’ she said, in a firm,

cool voice. ‘Let me tell you: my name is Urmila Roy and I am

a Calcutta reporter. Perhaps you should think a little before

you do anything.’

The secretary’s scowl deepened and he launched into a

threat-laden diatribe. Urmila listened quietly; she had

become all too used to situations like these over the last

couple of years. In her own way she had even come to relish

them.

She waited impassively until he ran out of breath. ’Now

will you please take me to Mr Haldar?’ she said, silkily.

‘Quickly, please; I don’t have much time. In a short while I

have to be at the Great Eastern Hotel, for a press conference

with the Minister of Communications.’

The secretary began to splutter. ‘You don’t understand,’

he said, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his spotless

kurta. ‘I can’t take you to Mr Haldar because I don’t know

where he is. He’s disappeared. He’s missed two

appointments already.’

Urmila stared at him, open mouthed, ‘But he’s meant to

come to our flat for dinner tonight,’ she began to explain,

meaninglessly. ‘That’s why I’m cooking this fish; that’s why

I’m going to be late for the press conference…’ She shook

the bag of fish under his nose once again.

The secretary sneered. ‘You’re either mad or dreaming,’

he said. ‘Mr Haldar is booked on a flight to Bombay this

evening—he has to attend a meeting there. He had no plans

to visit you or anyone else here.’ With a gesture of

dismissal, he turned to the chowkidar. ‘Take her away,’ he

said. ‘I’m not going to waste any more time on this

nonsense.’

Urmila allowed herself to be led out of the room, but at

the porch she broke suddenly free. ‘You’re lying,’ she

shouted, shaking off the chowkidar’s hand. ‘I don’t believe

you. You’re not going to get away with this—you’ll see…’

The chowkidar placed a restraining hand on her arm.

Trying to evade his grip Urmila stumbled. And then the

gravel path was flying up to meet her.

■

■

■

twenty-seven

WHEN NEXT she opened her eyes Urmila was lying in the

shade of the pillared portico of the Haldar mansion. Her

sight was blurred and her head was spinning. A large

indistinct shape was hovering above her, and beyond it

were about a dozen hazy faces, looking anxiously down at

her. A voice was shouting in her ear; she couldn’t tell what

it was saying; the accent was odd. Someone was fanning her

with a newspaper; someone else was offering her a glass of

water. The chowkidar was somewhere in the middle distance,

gesticulating and arguing with someone she couldn’t see.

Gradually, as her vision cleared, she saw that the large

blur in front of her was a face, the face of a man, a man with a

short, trimmed beard. He looked somehow familiar.

‘Miss Calcutta:’ he was shaking her shoulder. ‘Come on,

wake up. Where’d you get these? I’ve got to know.’

‘Get what?’ she said. He was waving something at her,

but she couldn’t see what it was.

‘These,’ he said impatiently. ‘This stuff you brought with

you; these papers.’

Brushing his hand away, she sat up. ‘Who are you?’ she

said. ‘Why are you shouting at me like this?’

He looked at her nonplussed. ‘Don’t you remember me?’

he said. ‘We met that day, at that auditorium.’

‘What do you mean, we met?’ she said. ‘I don’t know

your name, or who you are, or what you do or anything.’

‘I’m L. Murugan,’ he said. ‘I work for LifeWatch.’

Murugan took out his wallet and handed her a card. ‘I know

who you are,’ he said. ‘I don’t recall the name exactly, but I

know you work for Calcutta magazine.’

‘That’s all you need to know,’ she said. ‘Now kindly

explain what you are doing here.’

‘Me?’ said Murugan. ‘I wanted to ask Mr Haldar’s

permission to visit his Robinson Street property, so I

thought I’d come and introduce myself.’

‘And why were you shouting at me?’

‘I’ve got to know where you found these.’ He produced

the crumpled bits of Xerox paper she had found in the

packet of fish. ‘Can you tell me?’

‘How dare you?’ she cried. She lunged at his hand and

snatched the papers away. ‘These are mine. They belong to

me.’

‘They’re not yours,’ he said, grabbing at them. ‘They

have nothing to do with you.’

‘They’re mine and I’m going to keep them,’ said Urmila.

She screwed the papers into a tight little ball and tucked

them into the front of her blouse.

Murugan gritted his teeth. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’ve found

something that just might be the key to one of the mysteries

of the century, and all you want to do is start a custody

battle?’

Urmila rose slowly to her feet. ‘Why do you want them so

much?’ she said. ‘They’re just bits of waste paper.’

‘OK,’ said Murugan. ‘I’ll tell you what: I’ll save you the

trouble of flushing them down the toilet. Give them back to

me.’

‘There is no need to get agitated,’ she said coldly. She

rose to her feet, and directed a look of enquiry at the faces

around her. ‘Where’s my fish?’ she demanded, of no one in

particular. Someone handed the soggy packet back to her.

Taking a firm grip on it she set off down the path, towards

the gate.

Murugan ran after her. ‘Wait up,’ he said, trying to

collect himself. ‘Look, what is it that you want? Do you want

money or something?’

She threw him a contemptuous glance and walked on.

‘Then what?’ said Murugan.

‘I want to know what’s in those papers.’

He caught hold of her elbow. ‘Look,’ he said, in as

placatory a voice as he could muster. ‘You haven’t even told

me your name. All I know about you is that you work for

Calcutta.’

‘My name is none of your business,’ she answered,

shaking his hand off. ‘And kindly do not touch me.’

‘Oh, so is that going to be your attitude?’ said Murugan,

his voice rising. ‘So what shall I call you, then, since I’m not

going to be granted the honour of an introduction? Miss

Calcutta? Or perhaps even just Calcutta, or would that be

too intimate? Too affectionate, you think? Your husband

might begin to suspect some hanky-panky, some panking

hankies, some untoward hanking and panking…’

‘I’m not married,’ Urmila said coldly.

‘Oh, better and better: you just made my day, Calcutta,

I’m going to count the seconds till the hanking ends and the

panking begins, but before we start heaving our hanks let

me tell you something, Calcutta, let me feed a little factoid

into your database: let me tell you how this works: let me set

your priorities a little more in line with the real world. You

don’t get to ask me the questions: you see what I’m saying?

It’s Dr Morgan who gets to decide what you deserve to

know and when.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that so?’ she said.

‘You want an explanation,’ he said. ‘You’re going to get

it. But I’m going to choose the weapons and the venue.’

He ran to the road and stopped a taxi.

‘Po G. Hospital,’ he said, to the Sikh driver. ‘Quick; let’s

go.’

■

■

■

twenty-eight

ANTAR SHIVERED: he felt distinctly ill now. He would have

to find a way of letting Tara know that he wasn’t up to

having dinner with her.

Fortunately she’d been wearing a beeper the last few

weeks. Switching screens, he keyed in a few words: Regret

must cancel dinner; explain later. He called up her number

and dialled the message through.

The beeper had come with a new job Tara had found, a

few weeks ago. The woman she was working for now was a

stockbroker who often worked late: she liked to stay in

constant touch with her four-year-old and had insisted that

Tara carry a beeper.

The job was a good one, Tara said, much better than the

one she’d lost: the pay was fair and better still, the boy was

good-natured and his mother relatively undemanding. Tara

never lost an opportunity to thank Antar for helping her to

find the job.

But the truth was that if Antar had helped at all, it was

only in a rather roundabout way. One morning, about a

month ago, he had noticed her hanging about her apartment

at a time when she was usually out at work. Pushing up the

kitchen window, he called out: ‘What’s the matter? Not

going to work today?’

She stuck her head into the air-shaft, and gave him a

rueful smile. Her wispy hair was tied in an untidy knot and

she looked as though she hadn’t bothered to change after

getting out of bed.

‘I would if I could,’ she said. ‘But the job’s not mine any

more.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘The gloss that was put on the matter

was that I had rather reluctantly been allowed to depart. But

the fact was they needed someone with the right papers so

they could get a tax write-off.’ She shrugged and made a

face.

‘Oh,’ said Antar. ‘Well, that’s too bad.’ It took him a

moment to digest this bit of news.

‘Haven’t you found anything else yet?’ he said. ‘I

thought babysitters were snapped up the minute they hit the

market.’

Tara shook her head resignedly. ‘The best jobs are

posted on the Net,’ she said. ‘And I can’t afford a

subscription. Come to think of it, I can’t afford a computer

and wouldn’t know what to do with it if I could.’

‘On the Net?’ Antar was astounded. ‘Babysitting jobs?

You’re joking. Surely?’

‘I wish I were,’ she said. ‘But it’s true. I’ve looked in the

Irish Echo and India Abroad: not a thing in either.’

She gave him a bleak smile and a nod. ‘I must go now,’

she said. ‘Or my tea will get cold. And the way things are

going, I suspect it wouldn’t be wise to waste a tea bag.’ She

ducked back inside.

The conversation resounded in Antar’s mind through the

day as he sat staring at Ava’s screen: the precariousness of

her circumstances weighed on him in ways he couldn’t quite

understand. The next morning he was in and out of the

kitchen every few minutes until he spotted her, pottering

around her apartment.

Leaning over the sink, he shouted: ‘Listen: I have an

idea.’

She gave him a wan smile. ‘Yes?’ He could tell she’d been

up late, worrying.

‘I have an old laptop in my cupboard,’ he said. ‘I could

hook it up with Ava and run a cable through to you. You

could have as much time on the Net as you wanted. I’ve

upgraded it a couple of times and it can run the software.

The Council gives me twenty hours a week free, and I hardly

ever use even a fraction of that. I’ve got at least a thousand

hours coming to me. You can have them.’

Her thin, fine-boned face lit up. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Could

you really do that?’

She hesitated, as though she couldn’t believe her luck:

‘Are you sure it would be all right? I don’t want to get you

in any trouble.’

Antar made an attempt at nonchalance. ‘It’s very

irregular, of course,’ he said. ‘The Council’s paranoid about

security. But I think I can rig it. If you’re careful and you

don’t try to fool around we’ll both be all right.’

‘I’ll be very careful,’ she said earnestly. ‘You have my

word: I won’t do anything that might get you in trouble.’

Antar set up the link later that day.

It gave him a twinge to leave his old laptop behind with

her: it was an early nineties Korean-made model, sleek and

black, with beautifully rounded edges. He’d always loved it:

the heft and weight of it in his hands, the muted click of its

keyboard, its old-fashioned chrome detailing.

He offered to give her a few lessons but she declined.

‘You’ve been to plenty of trouble already,’ she said. ‘I won’t

put you to any more. Lucky will show me: he knows a little

about these things.’

‘Lucky?’ That was the name of the young man from the

Penn Station news-stand. Antar tried to imagine him, with

his fixed smile and his oddly spaced teeth, sitting in front of

his laptop, trying to steer Tara around the Net. He had his

doubts but he decided to keep them to himself.

As it turned out, Lucky was evidently a good teacher, for

Tara soon found her way around the Net. Antar monitored

her closely for the first few days. Then he grew tired of

following her around childcare bulletin boards and left her

alone.

She got her new job within a few days and had been

inordinately grateful ever since. That was why she had

wanted to come over tonight. ‘I can’t afford to take you out,’

she said. ‘So the least I can do is make sure that you eat

properly every once in a while.’

■

■

■

twenty-nine

ON LOWER CIRCULAR ROAD, halfway to the P. G.

Hospital, Urmila found herself reading and re-reading the

bright yellow lettering on the side of a crowded minibus that

was jammed up close against her window. The taxi was

idling in the traffic, imprisoned by the customary morning

throng of cars and buses. Hesitantly Urmila raised her eyes

to the windows of the minibus: a dozen people seemed to be

staring at her. She turned quickly away.

This was probably the bus she would have been on right

now, if she’d been on her way to work. They were probably

on it, all the usual crowd: the old man in the dhoti who

worked in the Accountant-General’s office and was writing a

book on something or the other; the railway clerk who

carried a huge tiffin-carrier full of food to the Strand every

morning; the woman from All India Radio, who had tried to

get her to join the ‘BBD Bagh Minibus Passengers’ Club’

last week.

Urmila shrank into the seat. The crumpled sheets of paper

were scraping uncomfortably against the tender spot

between her breasts. She wanted to reach in and pull it out,

but she couldn’t, not with that minibus so close to her

window.

What if they could see her now, the ‘BBD Bagh Minibus

Passengers’ Club’? What if they were to learn that she was

on her way to P. G. Hospital with a complete stranger? What

would they think? What would they make of it?

Suddenly she was furious. ‘What does the P. G. Hospital

have to do with my pieces of paper?’ she said, turning upon

Murugan. ‘Why are you taking me there? What are your

intentions?’

‘You wanted an explanation, Calcutta,’ Murugan said.

‘That was the deal. And I’m going to give you an

explanation, but I’m going to begin exactly where I want to.’

‘And you want to begin at the P. G. Hospital?’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m taking you there.’

She noticed the taxi driver watching them in his mirror.

She leaned over and waved her packet of fish under his

nose. ‘What’re you looking at, you cabbage-head?’ she

snapped. ‘Keep your eyes on the road.’

Chastened, the driver dropped his eyes.

‘Wow!’ said Murugan. ‘What was that all about?’

‘And you,’ she cried, turning on him in fury. ‘Who are

you, exactly?’ Suspicion was raging in her mind now; she

began to recall all the stories she had heard about foreign

con-men and kidnappers and prostitution rings in the

Middle East. ‘I want to know who you are and what you are

doing in Calcutta. I want to see a passport.’

‘I don’t have my passport with me right this minute,’ said

Murugan. ‘But you can have this.’ He took out his wallet

and handed her his ID card.

She looked it over carefully, examining the lettering and

matching the photograph with his face.

When they reached the Rabindra Sadan auditorium,

Murugan tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed

down the road. ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘Stop, over there.’

‘Here?’ Urmila found herself looking at a brick wall,

across a narrow ditch. ‘Why here? There’s nothing here;

we’ve left the hospital entrance behind: it’s over there.’

‘We don’t need the entrance,’ said Murugan, handing

the taxi driver a fifty-rupee note. ‘There’s something I want

to show you right here.’

‘But there’s nothing to see here,’ Urmila said

suspiciously. ‘It’s just a wall.’

‘Look over there,’ said Murugan, counting his change.

He pointed over his shoulder at the memorial to Ronald

Ross. ‘Did you get an eyeful of that?’

Urmila’s eyes widened in surprise as they followed his

finger to the marble plaque at the apex of the modest little

arch. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve never noticed it before.’ She began

reading aloud: ‘“In the small laboratory seventy yards to the

southeast of this gate Surgeon-Major Ronald Ross I.M.S. in

1898 discovered the manner in which malaria is conveyed by

mosquitoes.”’

She shook her head. ‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘I’ve

changed buses here hundreds of times. I can’t even begin to

count how often I’ve walked past this wall. But I’ve never

noticed that inscription up there.’

‘No one notices poor Ron any more,’ said Murugan. He

set off towards a gate a short distance down the road.

‘Follow me,’ he said, beckoning her on. ‘I’ll show you

something else.’

A chain hung suspended from the gateposts, just loose

enough to let one person through at a time. Murugan went

first and when Urmila caught up he pointed across the

hospital’s busy compound to a graceful red-brick building

set well back in the grounds.

‘When Ronald Ross came to work here in 1898,’ Murugan

said, ‘that building over there was all there was of the P. G.

Hospital.’

‘How do you know?’ she said.

He laughed. ‘It’s simple,’ he said. ‘You happen to be

speaking to the world’s greatest living expert on Ronnie

Ross.’

‘You mean you?’ she said.

‘You said it.’ He turned on his heel and set off down a

path that was bustling with uniformed hospital staff.

‘Look over there,’ he said, pointing ahead at a complex of

boxy new buildings all painted a drab, municipal yellow.

‘None of those was here when Ronnie was doing his malaria

research in Calcutta. It was just trees and bamboo and

greenery around here—except for a couple of labs and

outhouses where the servants and attendants lived.’

He held a handkerchief to his nose as they walked past

an open rubbish dump where crows, dogs and vultures were

fighting over scraps of food and blood-soaked bandages.

Nearby, a row of men stood lined up against a wall,

unheeding of a notice that pleaded: ‘Please do not urine

here.’

Murugan came to a halt in an open space, between two

wards, one of which bore a sign, ‘Ross Memorial Ward’. He

pointed to an old-fashioned red-brick bungalow that had

been incorporated into one of the hospital’s newly added

wings. ‘Look over there,’ he said. ‘That was Ross’s lab.’

He went over to the bungalow and drew her attention to a

marble tablet, set high in the wall. The tablet bore a stylized

image of a mosquito, and under it an inscription.

‘It’s too far up to read,’ Urmila said. ‘Doesn’t it say that it

was in this laboratory that Surgeon-Major Ronald Ross

made the momentous discovery that malaria is conveyed by

the bite of a mosquito?’

‘Something like that,’ said Murugan.

Urmila pulled a quizzical face. ‘What a strange little

building,’ she said. ‘It looks so shut in on itself. It’s hard to

believe that anybody could discover anything in there.’

‘What’s even harder to believe,’ said Murugan, ‘is that

this was once one of the best-equipped research

laboratories in the whole of the Indian subcontinent.’

‘Was it?’ she said, in surprise.

He nodded: ‘That’s right. And you know who set it up?’

‘How would I know about that?’ she snapped.

‘But you do know,’ said Murugan, ‘as a matter of fact,

you’ve got his name right there.’ He pointed at the piece of

paper that she had tucked into her blouse.

Turning her back to him, she took the ball of paper out of

her blouse. ‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘Show me.’

He pointed to one of the lines that had been marked in

ink. ‘That’s him. Surgeon-Colonel D. D. Cunningham.

‘That’s the guy who set up this place,’ said Murugan.

‘Like Ronnie Ross he was a doctor in the Indian Medical

Service, which was a unit of the British Indian Army. But

Cunningham was more or less a senior citizen, years older

than Ross. And he was a research scientist too—a

pathologist. In fact he was a Fellow of the Royal Society; he

had an FRS tagged to his name, which was one of the

fanciest tags you could get those days. Cunningham did a

lot of his work in Calcutta right here in this lab. He made it

into the best- equipped research centre in this part of the

world. It was Ron who made it famous, but he couldn’t have

done it without old D. D.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Urmila. ‘But I still don’t

see how this makes those papers so special.’

‘Patience, Calcutta,’ Murugan said. ‘I’m just getting

started. Come on.’

He headed back the way they had come and led her

through a passageway to the narrow dirt-filled space that

separated the Ross Memorial Ward from the hospital’s

boundary wall. The memorial arch was now a few yards to

their left, and over the top of the wall they could just see the

clogged traffic on Lower Circular Road.

Murugan pointed to a couple of low, ramshackle tin-

roofed structures, nestling in the mounds of earth and debris

that were piled up against the wall. ‘You see those

outhouses over there?’ he said. ‘That’s where Ronnie

Ross’s servants lived. One of them, a guy called Lutchman,

was Ross’s right-hand man. He used to breed the pigeons

that Ross used for his research right over there.’

‘Pigeons?’ said Urmila distractedly, casting a distasteful

glance at the little heaps of excrement that lay half-hidden in

the debris. ‘I thought you said he was working with

mosquitoes and malaria.’

‘Well, let me put it like this,’ said Murugan. ‘Ronnie Ross

didn’t always work with your usual plain-vanilla kinds of

malaria. In Calcutta he began working with a related avian

species, halteridium—you could call it a bird version of

malaria.’

‘Really?’ Urmila looked up warily at the trees around

them.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And to keep him supplied with material for

his experiments, his assistants, Lutchman and his crew, kept

a large flock of infected birds—right over there. And they

released their entire flock here, in September 1898, just days

after Ross finished his final series of experiments.’

He picked a stone off the ground. ‘Let me show you

something,’ he said. He tossed the stone in the direction of

the outhouse. It landed in the debris, and moments later, a

flock of pigeons took to the air with clucks of alarm and a

frantic beating of wings. Murugan stood back and watched

the birds circling above.

‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ he said, ‘if there were a

couple of descendants of Lutchman’ s flock up there.’

■

■

■

thirty

STANDING ON tiptoe Urmila peeped over the boundary

wall at the office-going traffic, streaming down Lower

Circular Road, past the hospital. She was surprised by how

sheltered and self-contained the bungalow was, how far

removed from both the bustle of the hospital and the noise

of the nearby traffic.

‘How quiet it seems here,’ she said, glancing from the

outhouse to the Ross memorial. ‘It’s hard to believe that I go

past this place twice every day, at rush hour.’

‘Exactly what Ronnie Ross thought,’ said Murugan.

‘Thought he’d found the lab of his dreams when he first got

here.’

Urmila stepped back from the wall. ‘So how was it that

Ross came to be here?’ she said. She ran her eyes over the

smoothed-out sheets of paper in her hands. ‘Was it this man

D. D. Cunningham who invited him here?’

‘No,’ said Murugan. ‘Exactly the opposite. Cunningham

did everything he could to make sure that Ross wouldn’t get

here. Ronnie wrote him begging letters every couple of

months, and Cunningham’s answers were always the same,

short and simple: no dice.’

‘But still,’ said Urmila, ‘Ronald Ross did come here, didn’t

he?’

‘That’s right,’ said Murugan. ‘Cunningham stonewalled

Ross for more than a year. And then one day, in January

1898, right out of the blue, Cunningham caved. In fact he

handed in his resignation and left for England in such a

hurry he forgot to pack his boxer shorts. On January 30 the

Government of India finally approved Ronnie Ross’s

transfer to Calcutta.

‘The official story is that all this was just coincidence: old

Cunningham was aching for the honeysuckled cottages of

Ye Olde England. Well, where he ended up was in a

boarding house in Surrey with a view of the municipal

gasworks. You’re going to tell me he left his cosy little set-

up out here for that just because he was homesick for

English muffins? Well, let me tell you: I don’t buy it.’

‘So what are you saying then?’ said Urmila. ‘Why do you

think he left?’

‘I don’t have the answer to that,’ said Murugan. ‘But it’s

clear that something happened round the middle of January

1898 that made Cunningham change his mind. And it was no

accident either: somebody worked pretty hard to set it up.’

Urmila examined her papers again. ‘Here, look at this,’ she

said, pointing at a line. ‘It says here that D. D. Cunningham

was granted six days’ leave in the middle of January—from

the 10th to the 15th of February. That’s when it must have

happened.’

‘Right,’ said Murugan. ‘And look at the date on that

railway reservation chart: on the 10th of January 1898

somebody called C. C. Dunn took a train to Madras.’

‘And who was that?’

‘No one,’ said Murugan. ‘That’s just it. I think someone

is trying to get the message across that D. D. Cunningham

travelled to Madras under a false name on that day.’

‘Madras?’ said Urmila scowling at the papers. ‘Why

Madras? What could have happened there? I suppose

there’s no way of finding out since it happened so long

ago?’

‘So you’d think,’ said Murugan, ‘I mean it’s not like you

can look up something that happened in Madras in 1898 in

the back issues of Time, right? But the fact is that I do

happen to know about a guy called C. C. Dunn who was in

Madras about that time. Only I’d never connected him with

D. D. Cunningham. Not until this morning, when I took those

papers out of your hands. They were the missing link, you

see; they tie it all together.’

‘And how did you learn about this C. C… whoever he

was?’

‘Because someone wanted me to,’ said Murugan. ‘It’s a

long story. Are you sure you’re up for it?’

Urmila nodded emphatically.

‘A few years ago,’ Murugan began, ‘I was trying to

update the malaria archive at the outfit where I work. I was

three months into the North Africa and Middle East files

when I came upon a weird report of a small, extremely

localized epidemic in northern Egypt, about thirty miles

south of Alexandria. The population of a tiny hamlet was

wiped out in a period of a few days. There were no

recurrences, no further outbreaks. This hamlet was settled

by a family of migrants from the south—Coptic Christians.

They didn’t have much to do with their neighbours and they

were a long way from the nearest village. When their bodies

were discovered they were already in an advanced state of

decomposition.’

‘What sort of epidemic was it?’ said Urmila.

‘No one’s sure,’ said Murugan. ‘There were no

autopsies. In fact the only reason we know about it at all is

because a British health officer wrote a short report on it.

This was in 1950, soon after the war, and the British were

basically still running the place. This health officer was a

competent, no-nonsense guy, from the sound of it: he’d

spent his whole career in Egypt. By the time he visited the

hamlet the bodies had been disposed of. But he reported

two kinds of anecdotal evidence about the symptoms of the

deceased: swollen neck glands and large numbers of tiny

skin perforations, like insect bites. He thought it might be an

exceptionally virulent strain of malaria but he had no way of

confirming his hunch. People from the surrounding villages

said that there might be a survivor: the body count left one

fourteen-year-old boy unaccounted for. He was reported to

have been seen at the railway station in a nearby town at

about the time of the outbreak. The health officer thought he

might be a carrier, and he tried to find him. He thought an

examination of the boy might yield a clue to what had

happened. But he was never found.’

‘So they had no idea what happened?’

‘Basically, no. The health officer admitted he didn’t know

what the fuck had happened. He added that the only time

he’d heard of similar symptoms was some twenty or more

years before, down south, in Luxor. Someone had told him

that the archaeology buff Lord Carnarvon had died of a

mosquito bite that had led to a fever and swollen neck

glands. He even quoted from a letter written by his

lordship’s daughter, just before he bit the dust. “You know

the mosquito bite on his [Papa’s] cheek that was worrying

him at Luxor, well yesterday quite suddenly all the glands in

his neck started swelling and last night he had a high

temperature and still has today.”’

‘I don’t follow,’ said Urmila. ‘We were talking about

something that is supposed to have happened in Madras in

1898. How did we end up in Egypt fifty years later?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to explain,’ said Murugan.

‘That’s what comes next. What happened was this: after I

found the health officer’s report, I began asking around to

see if anyone had any leads on this. I even posted some

queries on a couple of chat groups on the Web. One day I

logged on and there was this long message waiting for me:

pages and pages long. There was no address or anything on

it: it had been sent anonymously. I soon discovered that

whoever sent it went to a lot of trouble to make sure that I

wouldn’t find out who they were: it had been routed and re-

routed so many different ways I couldn’t even begin to trace

it.’

‘And what did the message say?’ Urmila asked.

‘It was an excerpt from a book written by a Czech psycho-

linguist. The excerpt was about a Hungarian high-society

type, who became a distinguished amateur archaeologist

and professional eccentric—one Countess Pongrácz.

Towards the end of her life she moved to Egypt. The last

time she was seen was in 1950: she was on her way to do a

dig somewhere near this hamlet where the outbreak

happened. No one knows what happened to her.’

‘I still don’t see the connection with Madras in January

1898,’ said Urmila.

‘I was just getting to that,’ said Murugan. ‘In her youth

La Pongrácz was a kind of prototype of a sixties jet-setter,

travelling around the world, picking up gurus and stuff. And

in January 1898 she was nineteen years old, just starting on

her long career. And where do you think she was?’

‘Where?’ said Urmila.

‘In India,’ said Murugan. ‘Madras to be exact. Now you’d

reckon that if a guru-groupie was down in that part of the

world at that time they’d home in on Madame Blavatsky and

the Theosophical Society like a heat-seeking missile seeks

heat. But you’d be wrong. This Countess Pongrácz was a

real guru-gourmet and she didn’t go in for any of that heat-

and-serve stuff. The guru she settled on was Madame

Blavatsky’s arch-rival—a Finnish number called Madame

Liisa Salminen, who ran her own little outfit called the

Society of Spiritualists. The Countess was Madame

Salminen’s leading disciple, and she noted down everything

that happened to her guru.’

■

■

■

thirty-one

ON THE NIGHT of January 12 1898, records the Grófné

Pongrácz, a select few Spiritualists gathered, as was their

custom, at a house rented by the Society for their weekly

séance with Mme Salminen. Several independent sources

attest that these séances were generally stately, highly

regulated affairs. They usually began with a small reception,

with Mme Salminen holding court and handing out cups of

China tea. On this occasion however the solemnity of the

tea-party was rudely interrupted by an unlikely and

unexpected intruder. There were many in Madras who

coveted invitations to join Mme Salminen’s circle of

intimates. Some had been known to go to considerable

lengths to infiltrate the group. Thus it was not the mere fact

of the arrival of an uninvited guest that took the assembled

Spiritualists by surprise: rather it was because the man in

question did not seem to be even remotely the kind of

person who might wish to be associated with such a group.

Quite the contrary. It ought to be noted that in general the

Spiritualists, Theosophists and their fellow-travellers looked

upon British civilian and military officialdom with

undisguised loathing—a sentiment that was reciprocated in

more than ample measure. Such was their mutual revulsion

that in the barrack-rooms of Madras’s Fort St George, the

phrase ‘I would rather be a Spiritualist’, when uttered by a

cavalryman, was generally regarded as the equivalent, in

connotative association, to such statements as ‘I would

rather be dead’.

Conversely, the sentence ‘I would rather be a Lieutenant-

Colonel’ might be held to constitute a similarly firm

statement of preferences amongst Spiritualists and their kin.

Yet it would appear from the Countess’s brief but vivid

description that the intruder in question was precisely a man

of military affiliations. She describes him, in her inimitable

Magyar way, as a portly, ruddy-faced Englishman in his late

fifties, with sparse hair and a Hussar’s moustache. The man

was clearly in a state of extreme emotional distress, for he

was observed to be wringing his hands and tugging his

moustache, while his eyes were bloodshot and inflamed, as

though he had not slept for several days. Yet something in

his bearing belied his overwrought state: the Countess, for

one, immediately took him to be an officer of high to middle

rank, possibly in an infantry regiment. Imagine her surprise,

then, when the intruder made no mention of a rank or

regiment while introducing himself. She took it as a rebuff, as

a slight on her powers of observation: and it is worth

remembering that the Countess Pongrácz claimed descent

from no less a soldier than the great Attila himself, and

moreover was as accustomed to a place of honour in the

courtly circles of Imperial Buda as she was to the taverns Of

soldierly Pest. She was unlikely to be mistaken in

recognizing the attributes of a military man.

The Spiritualists’ suspicions were further aroused when

the intruder appeared to have some trouble remembering his

own name, introducing himself finally (and not without some

hesitation) as C. C. Dunn. No sooner had this cursory

introduction been effected, however, than the self-styled Mr

Dunn leant over towards the imposing head of Mme

Salminen and began to whisper. The countess happened to

be close at hand at the time and now, without appearing to

pay the slightest attention, she contrived to direct her

hearing in this direction. But adept though she undoubtedly

was at this rare aristocratic art, she managed to catch no

more than a few disjointed syllables: ‘Great distance… see

you… dreams… visions… death… implore you…

madness… annihilation.’

The countess, like many others in the room, fully

expected Mme Salminen to give the stranger short shrift, as

she had so many others before him. But here they

underestimated the formidable Finn. Mme Salminen took a

particular interest in people who exhibited signs of extreme

emotion: it was her belief that violent passion, when

efficiently channelled, can create the conditions for what she

called ‘psychic breakthroughs’. Thus, far from turning away

the distraught Mr Dunn, she extended him a warm welcome

and invited him to join the assembled company when they

withdrew to the séance table.

It is worth emphasizing here that Countess Pongrácz’s

accounts of séances were not always entirely coherent. She

would often jot down her impressions immediately after the

session when she was herself in a state of considerable

excitation. Often in these situations, the impeccable High

German in which her accounts were composed would begin

to show signs of strain; sometimes her beleaguered sense of

syntax would yield altogether, and instead of complete

sentences she would jot down strings of apparently

disconnected syllables. Intensive computer analysis has

demonstrated that these phonemic clusters were drawn from

a melange of Central European dialects such as Slovenian

and certain unusual Carpathian variants of Finno-Ugrian (all

learned, no doubt, below stairs from the vast staff of the

Kastély Pongrácz).

The point, of course, is that we cannot pretend that the

Countess was a reliable witness or that an accurate narrative

can be constructed from the skeletal word-associations of

her diary. However, her accounts can frequently be

corroborated with what is known of the protocols and

procedures of Mme Salminen’s séances, and these facts are

not in general dispute. As a rule Mme Salminen and her little

flock would withdraw after tea to a room that was lit with

only one candle. Sitting around a heavy wooden table, the

assembled company would join hands’ and attempt to bring

their powers of concentration into focus, with Mme

Salminen acting as a lens, so to speak, for the dispersed

energy of their minds. To be counted as a success a session

such as this would have to produce some of the

‘manifestations’ of psychic energy that were so dear to the

Spiritualists—such phenomena as table-tapping, automatic

writing, incorporeal voices and so on. On certain special

occasions the lucky few were even rewarded with the most

highly valued of psychic prizes, so to speak, that is to say a

kind of light that was termed an ‘ectoplasmic glow’. That

‘manifestations’ of this kind can very easily be

manufactured in circumstances of collective hysteria has of

course been repeatedly demonstrated and needs no

comment here.

It must be noted however that the ‘glow’ phenomenon

was a rare and unusual occurrence. It was usually produced

only towards the end of a session, and was invariably

preceded by other manifestations such as table-tapping, etc.

On the occasion with which we are currently concerned,

it so happened that the Countess Pongrácz was chosen to

sit beside Mme Salminen and opposite the uninvited guest

—the self-styled Mr C. C. Dunn. Now it appears that,

despite Mme Salminen’s explicit instructions to the contrary,

the Countess was in the habit of casting occasional glances

around the table at these sessions. It was thus she noticed

that after twenty minutes or so Mme Salminen and Mr Dunn

appeared to have fallen into a kind of trance, with their

heads slumped forward, almost touching the table. When

this condition persisted for a considerable length of time, the

Countess began to consider the otherwise unthinkable step

of interrupting the proceedings (unthinkable because it was

the current belief that an interruption would cause a ‘spirit’

to be trapped in interplasmic limbo).

However, even as she was considering this possibility,

Mme Salminen’s head was flung back against the chair,

suddenly and violently, so that she was staring up at the

ceiling, her hair flowing loose, her mouth slack and open.

Then Mr Dunn was hurled backwards bodily from the table

and flattened against the wall, his feet several inches off the

ground. The next instant the single candle was extinguished

and the room was suddenly plunged into an impenetrable

velvety darkness. The heavy table was upended with a

violent crash, and Mr Dunn fell to the floor, screaming in

what appeared to be Hindustani: ‘Save me… from her…

pursuit… beg mercy…’

The strangest aspect of these hallucinations, the

Countess records, was that even in that darkness which was

not merely the absence of light but rather its opposite, an

antithesis that could only be conceived in the inner eye of

the mind: even in this blank darkness they could see C. C.

Dunn absolutely clearly, although not with the kind of

vision that depends on light; they could see him struggling;

the agonies that passed over his face; they watched his

futile attempts to fight off whatever it was that had tied him

upon this rack of torment—all this they could see, but never

once did they glimpse or even imagine the agent of his

anguish, what arm or instrument, or whatever means it was

through which these hideous agonies were effected. His

face was livid with fear, and they saw him flailing his arms,

fighting something off, a hand, or possibly an instrument.

They saw him cowering on the floor, prostrate but not

unconscious, but then just as suddenly the nature of his

struggle changed, and he seemed instead to be grappling

with an animal, fighting to keep its fangs from closing

around his throat; shouting a repetitive string of

invocations.

Then abruptly the noise ceased and the candle flared up

again so that they were no longer in darkness. Opening their

eyes they saw that the table was exactly where it had been,

and that they were all sitting in their places, except the

unannounced guest, who was cowering in a corner, stark

naked.

And then Mme Salminen spoke her first words, in a

whisper so soft as to be audible to none other than the

countess, who was seated beside her. All this while Mme

Salminen had been sprawled in her chair, her head thrown

back, her eyes blank and unseeing. When she spoke it was

without properly regaining consciousness. The sentence

that escaped her lips was: ‘There is nothing I can do: the

Silence has come to claim him.’

Having said these few words she collapsed on the table.

Her alarmed acolytes removed her immediately to her

bedroom, where she remained until well into the next day. On

gaining consciousness her first act was to send for the

countess. The two women remained closeted together for

several hours.

Unfortunately the Countess never provided a written

account of their conversation of that day, but she is known

to have described it later as the turning point of her life.

However the actual influence of Mme Salminen on her

disciple’s subsequent career remains disputed. For instance,

when she attributed her pioneering archaeological work in

excavating early Manichaean and Nestorian sites in Central

Asia, Nepal and Bengal to the influence of Mme Salminen,

her friends assumed that this was merely a manner of

speaking—a grateful acolyte’s rendering of homage. But in

her advocacy of the teachings of Valentinus, the

Alexandrian philosopher of the early Christian era, they were

more inclined to take her assertions at face value. When she

asserted that it was Mme Salminen who had revealed to her

the truth of the Valentinian cosmology, in which the ultimate

deities are the Abyss and the Silence, the one being male

and the other female, the one representing mind and the

other truth, few disputed her account of the matter, for these

beliefs clearly did not merit a prosaic explanation.

Yet, accustomed as her friends were to her eccentricities,

they became seriously concerned when she moved to Egypt

in the late 1940s, to search for the most sacred site of the

ancient Valentinian cult: the lost shrine of Silence. Some of

them were to recall later, after her disappearance, that she

had often spoken of a description that Mme Salminen had

given her: of a small hamlet on the edge of the desert; of

date palms and mud huts and creaking waterwheels.

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www.Facebook.com/freenovelshirty-two

URMILA SHIVERED, despite the clammy heat.

‘So do you think it’s all connected?’ she said. ‘The

message that was sent to you, and these bits of paper that

the fish were wrapped in…’

‘Are you kidding?’ Murugan said. ‘You bet they’re

connected. Your fish wrappings pull it all together. Look at it

this way: Cunningham had the only lab on the continent

where Ron had a snowflake’s chance of making a

breakthrough; Ron knew this and by late 1896 he was

desperate to get his ass to Calcutta. But Cunningham just

wasn’t buying it: he’d set this lab up like his own backyard

barbecue and he wasn’t going to let some punk kid break up

his party. Ergo: if Cunningham was the principal obstacle to

Ron’s moving to Calcutta, it follows that at this point in time

—late 1897—he was the single greatest obstacle to the

solution of the malaria puzzle. If someone was looking over

Ron’s shoulder at this stage, it wouldn’t take them long to

figure this out. So what do they do? They call a timeout and

go into a huddle and when they go back on the floor they’ve

got a new gameplan: Cunningham’s got to go. And sure

enough, that’s exactly what happens: suddenly in January

1898, Cunningham changes his mind; he throws the game

and takes his tail off to England. In between he makes a pit-

stop in Madras where he goes through some kind of

psychotic episode. Those papers, that message on my

screen—someone is trying to get me to make connections:

they want me to know I was on the right track’

‘But wait a minute,’ said Urmila. ‘What do you mean

“want you to know”? It wasn’t you who found the papers. It

was me—and I met you by accident—because you

happened to be at Romen Haldar’s house when I… when I

fainted.’

‘Is that right?’ said Murugan. ‘OK, now you tell me

exactly how you happened to “find” those papers and we’ll

try and see if your accident theory holds up.’

Urmila began to tell him about the events of that morning,

and the night before—the phone-call to her family, her

promise to cook fish, and the providential ring of the

doorbell at seven fifteen. And slowly, as she told the story,

her account grew more and more uncertain, so that when she

got to the unknown fish-seller, her voice faded into a barely

audible murmur.

‘But why would anyone set about the whole thing in

such a roundabout way?’ she said. ‘If they want you to

know something why wouldn’t they just tell you—why

involve me and Romen Haldar and…?’

Murugan paused to scratch his beard. ‘The truth is,’ he

said, ‘that I don’t know. But a couple of things are clear

enough. Someone’s trying to get us to make some

connections; they’re trying to tell us something; something

they don’t want to put together themselves, so that when

we get to the end we’ll have a whole new story.’

‘Why?’ said Urmila. ‘What purpose does it serve? What

good will it do them if we get to the end or not?’

‘I’m not absolutely sure,’ said Murugan, ‘but I guess I

could sketch one possible scenario.’

‘Go on,’ said Urmila.

‘All right,’ said Murugan. ‘Now suppose, just suppose

you had this belief—don’t ask me why or anything, this is

strictly a let’s pretend game—just suppose you believed

that to know something is to change it, it would follow,

wouldn’t it, that to make something known would be one

way of effecting a change? Or creating a mutation, if you

like.’

Urmila made a doubtful noise.

‘Now let’s take this one step further. If you did believe

this, it would follow that if you wanted to create a specific

kind of change, or mutation, one of the ways in which you

could get there is by allowing certain things to be known.

You’d have to be very careful in how you did it, because the

experiment wouldn’t work until it led to a genuine discovery

of some kind. It wouldn’t work, for instance, if you picked

someone out of a crowd and said: “Yo, here’s a two and

here’s another; add them up and what do you get?” That

wouldn’t be a real discovery because the answer would be

known already. So what you would have to do is to push

your guinea pigs in the right direction and wait for them to

get there on their own.’

‘So what you’re saying,’ Urmila said, ‘is that someone is

telling you something, through me, in this very roundabout

way, as a kind of experiment; because they’re trying to

change something?’

‘I couldn’t have said it better myself.’

‘To change what?’ cried Urmila. ‘And why? What do

they want to do with us?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Murugan. ‘We don’t know what;

we don’t know why.’

‘So you mean to say,’ said Urmila, ‘you and I are trapped

in an experiment, and we don’t know what it’s for or why?’

‘That’s right,’ said Murugan. ‘Fact is we’re dealing with a

crowd for whom silence is a religion. We don’t even know

what we don’t know. We don’t know who’s in this and

who’s not; we don’t know how much of the spin they’ve got

under control. We don’t know how many of the threads they

want us to pull together and how many they want to keep

hanging for whoever comes next.’

‘You mean,’ said Urmila, ‘they may keep the rest for

someone else to put together—sometime in the future?’

‘I’d guess that’s the case, yes,’ Murugan said. ‘These

guys aren’t going anywhere in a hurry. They’ve been

planting carefully selected clues for the last century or so,

and every once in a while, for reasons of their own, they

choose to draw them to the attention of a couple of chosen

people. Just because you and I happen to have been

included doesn’t mean they’ve closed the list.’

‘So where is it all going?’ said Urmila. ‘Where will it end?’

‘It won’t,’ said Murugan. ‘Let me tell you how this works:

they have to be very careful to pick the right time to turn the

last page. See, for them, writing “The End” to this story is

the way they hope to trigger the quantum leap into the next.

But for that to happen two things have to coincide precisely:

the end credits have to come up at exactly the same instant

that the story is revealed to whoever they’re keeping it for.’

‘So what are they waiting for?’ said Urmila.

‘Could be any number of things,’ said Murugan. ‘Maybe

they’re waiting to find some previously unreported strain of

malaria. Or maybe they’re waiting on a technology that’ll

make it easier and quicker to deliver their story to whoever

they’re keeping it for: a technology that’ll be a lot more

efficient in mounting it than anything that’s available right

now. Or maybe they’re waiting for both. Who’s to say?’

He was cut short by a roll of thunder. Looking quickly

around, Urmila noticed a sheltered spot under the

overhanging roof of the derelict outhouse. She squeezed

under it and seated herself on the ground, pulling her knees

up against her chin. Murugan followed, crawling in beside

her and creakily crossing his legs. Within minutes the rain

was pouring down before them, off the edge of the

overhang.

Urmila stared into the glassy wall of rain, hugging her

knees. It was all so unclear now: the call from the Club, the

fish-seller in the morning, Romen Haldar, Sonali Das. It was

so hard now to know what was a part of it and what wasn’t:

the kitchen window which looked out over the Haldar house,

was that a part of it? Her parents? Her brothers? Her sister-

in-law? (No, not her.) Was it a part of it that she was dressed

in this horrible, dirty sari, spattered with turmeric stains and

fish-blood; was it a part of it that she’d knocked on the

Gangopadhyayas’ door and woken them up this morning?

And so strange to think that all this had happened when the

only thing she was thinking of was how she had to cook

shorshe-ilish as soon as possible, so she would be able to

catch the BBD Bagh minibus and get to the Great Eastern

Hotel on time for the Minister of Communications’ press

conference. Now, thinking of it, it seemed so long ago; she

could hardly remember why the Minister of Communications

and his press conference were so important, why she had

been in such a hurry to get there, why the news editor had

been so insistent: what would the Minister have said

anyway? That communications were good? That ministering

to them was his life’s mission? How odd it would have been

to sit at a keyboard, trying to think of a good sentence to

lead

with: Today the Minister of Communications

announced at a press conference that he believed strongly

that communications were the k ey to India’s future. In a

way it seemed less odd to be here, almost, sitting on this

leaky veranda, with the smell of shit everywhere, than to

listen to some fat old man from Delhi talking into a

screeching microphone; it was easier to understand why she

was here, crouching in this damp corner of this decrepit

outhouse than it was to know why she had been trying to

cook a fish so that her brother could get into a First Division

football team; it made more sense to be listening to Murugan

going on about Ronald Ross than it did to be worrying

about whether she would be able to fight her way into a

BBD Bagh minibus so she wouldn’t be late for a press

conference at the Great Eastern. This even though she had

never heard of Ronald Ross before, never met this man

before, this man sitting pushed up against her now, his leg

against hers. He wasn’t like anyone she knew, but there was

nothing wrong with that, of course, it was nice to meet

someone new, and his beard was nice too, sort of like a stiff

brush. What would it be like to touch it—his beard—she

began to wonder, and then to her surprise, she realized, why

yes, she was touching him, but not his beard—his thigh was

against hers, pleasantly warm, not clammy. Out on the road

the buses were still roaring by, in the rain; she could see

people huddling behind the misted windows, hurrying along

down the pavement, under their umbrellas, rushing into the

Nandan cinema complex and the Academy of Fine Arts. How

odd to think that all that separated them from her and

Murugan was a paltry little wall, just one little wall, yet it did

the job just as well as if it was the Great Wall of China, for

they couldn’t see her or him. In a way it was like being in a

test tube: that was probably what it felt like, to know that

something was going to happen on this side of the glass but

not on the other; that there was a wall between you and

everyone else, all those people in the buses and the

minibuses, hurrying to work from Kankurgachi and

Beleghata and Bansdroni, after their morning rice, with the

smell of dhal still buried deep in their fingernails; they were

so far away, even though they were just on the other side of

the wall; they wouldn’t know even if he had his shirt off and

she was running her nails down his chest to his belly; they

wouldn’t know if he had his trousers down, around his

ankles, and her hand was in his lap instead of her own, her

forefinger picking through the curly hair of his groin; they

wouldn’t know if her blouse was off and his arm was around

her shoulder, his hand cupping her breast and his thumbnail

rubbing on her nipple; they wouldn’t know, they wouldn’t

have the faintest idea, rushing past on their way to work,

and actually, it wasn’t so hard to imagine, his arm around her

shoulder and his hand upon her breast. It would be like an

experiment too; that was exactly what it would be like, the

feel of him between her legs, his lips on her neck the sense

of something animated deep inside her. What other word

could there be for it, but ‘experiment’, something new,

something which she knew was going to change her even if

it lasted only a few minutes, or even seconds; something

that was happening in ways that were entirely beyond her

own imagining, and which she was powerless to affect in

anyway.

■

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thirty-three

AFTER MAKING SURE his message to Tara had gone

through, Antar went to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass

of water. Tara’s apartment was still dark but her white lace

curtains were billowing spectrally in the gentle evening

breeze. She had left her windows open again, an inch or two

at the bottom. Antar bit his lip: it was odd that he hadn’t

noticed before. He always worried when she did that. He still

hadn’t grown used to the idea that there was someone else

living here now; opening her own windows, closing her own

doors.

Another time when she left the windows open, a storm hit

unexpectedly, in the afternoon. Ava warned Antar early,

interrupting one of her interminable inventories to let him

know that bad weather was on the way.

He went around his apartment, shutting the windows. It

was when he got to the kitchen that he noticed Tara had left

her windows open—not all the way, but a good four or five

inches. The white lace curtains in her living room were

flapping in the gale.

He checked again half an hour later, and the curtains were

gone: the wind had torn them off the rails. The rain was

pouring in, driven by the wind. Over the next couple of

hours Antar found himself drawn to the kitchen window

again and again. He felt somehow responsible; as though he

was to blame.

It was too dark to see what the wind and the rain were

doing to the interior of the apartment. But he could imagine

it all too well: the water streaming over the bare wood floor,

collecting in puddles around the rush mats she had laid out,

so carefully and precisely.

Tara’s friends, Lucky and Maria, had helped carry her

things up the stairs when she first moved in, a few months

ago. Antar had marvelled at how few things she had: a

futon, some sheets and mats and a couple of tables and

chairs that looked like they’d come off the street. The only

things on the walls were a few calligraphed scrolls. And now

the scrolls were ruined: he could see them flapping on the

walls of her living room in ragged flurries of white, torn to

ribbons by the wind.

What was worse was that he had no way of letting her

know. This was before her beeper: she was still working at

her other job then and he didn’t have her phone number. All

he could do was wait.

The storm was over by the time the lights came on in her

apartment. Antar hurried into the kitchen to tell her what had

happened and discovered that it wasn’t Tara who’d come in.

It was Lucky, and he’d already got busy cleaning up. Antar

kept a discreet eye on him over the next hour or so: he didn’t

seem to know that he could be seen. He took off his T-shirt

and his trousers and wrapped a dishtowel around his groin,

like a loincloth. Then he got down on his knees and mopped

the floor, not once but twice. Antar watched worriedly,

wondering whether he’d do any damage. Lucky was

notoriously clumsy, always dropping trays and spilling tea:

‘all thumbs’, as Tara often said.

Shortly afterwards Antar heard Tara’s door banging shut.

He went into the kitchen to see if she’d come home at last.

He was in time to see her tiredly unslinging her handbag

and dropping it to the floor. Then Lucky came hurrying out

of another room—to greet her, as Antar thought. But

instead he did something that amazed Antar. He flung

himself down on the floor in front of Tara and touched his

forehead to her feet.

Tara’s first, instinctive response was to look up, across

the apartment, in the direction of Antar’s kitchen window.

She was very embarrassed when she saw Antar standing

there. She gave him an awkward wave and then muttered

something to Lucky, who pulled himself up, looking

sheepish.

Antar was embarrassed too, but he managed a smile and

a wave. He had always assumed that they were just friends;

he’d even wondered if they were lovers—though Lucky did

seem a bit young for her. But Tara explained later that they

were related in some complicated way: thus the greeting.

And now she’d done it again: left her window open.

Antar shrugged: well, at least it wasn’t raining today. He

lowered his sweating face to the sink and sluiced water over

it.

He was on his way to his bedroom when the phone rang.

He took the call in his living room, dropping into the chair

that faced Ava’s screen.

It was Tara, sounding a little breathless.

‘You got my message?’ Antar said.

‘I did indeed,’ she answered. ‘You sounded so

mysterious; I had to find out what you were up to.’

‘Oh, nothing important,’ said Antar. ‘Just some routine

stuff that’s going to take longer than it should. ’

‘Oh, really?’ she said. ‘Sounds frightfully important.’

‘Also I don’t feel well.’

‘Can I help?’ Her voice was immediately full of concern.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘I’ll be all right; I’ve been through this before.’

‘I could come by,’ she said. ‘Just say the word.’

‘No. Thank you.’ He decided to change the subject.

‘Where are you calling from?’ he said.

‘The playground at 97th and Riverside,’ she said. ‘My

little monster’s trying to climb a fibreglass dinosaur.’

‘You’re at the playground?’ Antar said in surprise. ‘But I

don’t hear any children.’

She laughed. ‘No. Most of them are down with the

sprinklers, getting soaked to the skin.’

Antar paused, in puzzlement. Something didn’t seem

quite right. ‘Do they have public phones at the

playground?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Or at least I’m not using one if they do.

One of the sitters lent me her—what do you call them?—

those portable thingummyjigs. I suppose I’d better let you

go now. Let me know if you change your mind about dinner.

I can be over in a couple of minutes.’

‘Did you say a couple of minutes?’ Antar said. ‘But

surely it’ll take you at least half an hour to get here from 97th

street. Even by taxi…’

‘Just a manner of speaking…’ she said quickly.

At exactly that moment Ava emitted a ping, to warn him

that she was about to go into standby mode. An instant

later Antar heard the same sound relayed down the

telephone line.

‘I’d better get off,’ Tara said.

Antar started. ‘Wait a minute…’ he cried into the

telephone. But the line had gone dead.

Antar stared at the receiver not quite sure of what had

happened. For a moment it had sounded as though Tara

were in the room with him and her mouthpiece had picked up

Ava’s ping.

He put the back of his hand against his forehead and

wasn’t surprised to find it very hot. He knew he was really

feverish now.

He decided it was time to lie down.

■

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thirty-four

WITH HIS POCKET DIARY resting on his knee, shielded

from the splashing rain by a protective arm, Murugan began

to draw on an empty page with a ballpoint pen. When he

had finished, he tore the page out of the diary and passed it

to Urmila. It was a sketch of a figurine, a semicircular mound

with two painted eyes. On one side of the mound was a tiny

pigeon, and on the other a small semicircular instrument…

‘Ever seen anything like this before?’ he said.

Urmila examined the drawing minutely, frowning in

concentration. ‘I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I had,’

she said. ‘It’s like so many temple images—except for that

thing over there. What is it?’ She pointed at the instrument.

‘My guess is that it’s a version of an old-fashioned

microscope,’ Murugan said.

‘So who or what is it an image of?’

‘If I had to take a guess, I’d say that that was the

demiurge of Ron’s discovery,’ he said. ‘My guess is that

she’s the one behind this whole experiment.’

‘You think it was a woman?’ said Urmila.

Murugan nodded.

‘Where did you find it?’ Urmila asked.

‘Over there,’ said Murugan, pointing his pencil at the

wall: it was raining so hard now that the alcove was barely

visible, even though it was no more than a few yards away.

He began to explain how he had found the little figurine

there the night before. Urmila listened intently, and when he

had finished, she gave a little nod, as though confirming

something to herself.

‘It’s strange,’ said Urmila. ‘Just the other day, I was

reading a book of Phulboni’s essays—you know, the writer

who was given the award at Rabindra Sadan yesterday?

What you were saying reminded me of something he wrote a

long time ago. I remember the passage almost by heart. “I

have never known”, it begins, “whether life lies in words or

in images, in speech or sight. Does a story come to be in the

words that I conjure out of my mind or does it live already,

somewhere, enshrined in mud and clay—in an image, that is,

in the crafted mimicry of life?”

‘Apparently,’ Urmila continued, ‘Phulboni wrote a story

many years ago: about a woman, bathing…’ Her voice

deepened in tone, in imitation of the writer’s: ‘“…A woman

no different from the hundreds of women you see every day,

from the windows of your cars and buses, a woman washing

off the day’s dirt in the dank, weed-rich water of a pond, in a

park—a pond like so many in our city, like Minto Park, or

Poddopukur, or anyone of a dozen others. The woman

kneels, in the soft, glutinous mud, the water rises in a dark

curtain to her throat, allowing her to momentarily slip the top

of her mud-browned sari off her shoulders, and run the tips

of her fingers over her breasts, scrape a sliver of soap across

the hardened skin of child-bitten nipples, then run her hand

down, below, past the folds of a wasted belly, and even

further, down, down, scraping that foaming sliver past the

parted lips that have vomited a dozen children into her

husband’s bed, and further still into the velvet dampness of

the mud, the soap clinging to her fingers, and then, without

warning her foot slips, and she finds herself, for one panic-

stricken moment, clutching at the mud which is suddenly as

soft, as pliant and yielding as death itself, her hands clawing

at that depthless murk, and then, when the face of extinction

seems to be looking unsmiling into her eyes, the edge of a

fingernail scrapes suddenly upon something solid,

something abrasive, something with redeeming, saving, life-

giving edges, something blessedly hard, something that can

give her the moment’s handhold she needs to claw her way

back to the surface and seize a breath of our city’s dankly

sustaining humours.

‘“And when her torso rises above the water, her breasts

bared, her hair hanging black to her knees, her arms fling an

arc of water high into the air, and she screams: ‘She saved

me; she saved me,’ and at once all the other bathers plunge

in, their feet churning the silky brown water into a frothing

bog, and taking her by the arms, they drag her ashore, while

she goes on screaming, through mouthfuls of water: ‘She

saved me, saved me.’

‘“When she is lying on the grass, they pry open her fist

and see that it has fastened upon an object, a polished grey

stone with a whirl of white staring out of its centre like an all-

seeing eye. She screams, spluttering through jets of

swallowed mud and water; she will not part from that tiny

shape that gave her the handhold she needed to keep from

drowning, but the others tear it from her, for they know that

the rock that saved her, that the small, life-giving lump of

stone was none other than a miraculous manifestation of…

of what? They do not know; believing only in the reality of

the miracle…’”

Pausing to catch her breath, Urmila turned to Murugan.

‘And then,’ she said, ‘one day, many years later,

Phulboni was going past a park and what did he see but a

little shrine, decorated with flowers and offerings. He

stopped to enquire, but no one could tell him whose shrine it

was and how it had come to be there. Determined to find out

he went to Kalighat, to one of the lanes where these images

are made. And there he found someone who told him a story

that was very much like his own, yet the man had never

heard of Phulboni and had never read anything he had ever

written, and by the time he had finished, it was Phulboni

who was no longer sure which had happened first or

whether they were all aspects of the coming of that image

into the world: its presence in the mud, the writing of his

story, that bather’s discovery or the tale he had just heard,

in Kalighat.’

Murugan ran a fingernail through his goatee. ‘I don’t get

it,’ he said.

Urmila put out a hand to test the rain. It had thinned to a

light drizzle now. She gave Murugan a sharp prod in the ribs.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go.’

‘Go where?’ said Murugan.

‘To Kalighat,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see if we can learn

anything about that image you saw.’

■

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■

thirty-five

ON THE WAY to Kalighat, watching the rain-slicked streets

through the misted glass of the taxi’s window, Urmila had a

vivid recollection of the lane they were going to: she

remembered a narrow alley, winding through low, tin-roofed

sheds, pavements that were lined with rows of grey-brown

clay figures, some just torsos, full-breasted but headless,

with tufts of straw blossoming out of their necks, some

legless, some without hands, some with their arms curved in

phantom gestures around invisible objects—weapons,

sitars, skulls.

She had an aunt who lived nearby, in a big, old-fashioned

house that towered above the lanes around it. As a child she

had often walked through the lane, to visit her aunt. She had

watched in amazement as breasts and bellies took shape

under the craftsmen’s kneading fingers, wondering at the

intimacy of their knowledge of those spectral bodies. At her

aunt’s house she would go to the balcony and look down

on the lane and its rows of clay images, watching the image-

makers at their work; noting details of the different ways in

which they modelled heads and hands; observing how the

images changed with the seasons; how phalanxes of Ma

Shoroshshotis appeared in January, each embellished with

the goddess’s swan and sitar; Ma Durgas in autumn, with

the entire pantheon of her family ranged around her and

Mahishashur writhing at her feet.

The taxi came to a halt at the corner of the lane, and they

stepped out into the fine foglike drizzle. Murugan paid and

then Urmila led him quickly towards the low, bamboo-walled

workshops at the end of the lane. Hundreds of beatifically

smiling faces floated by them as they hurried past, some

draped in tarpaulin, their eyes unpupilled, their arms

outstretched in immobile benediction.

Urmila laughed.

‘What’s up?’ said Murugan.

‘I often had a dream when I was a child,’ Urmila said, with

a laugh in her throat. ‘I dreamt I would open the front door

of our flat one day and find a small group of gods and

goddesses outside, ringing the bell with the tips of their clay

fingers. I would open the door and welcome them, hands

folded, and they would float in on their swans and rats and

lions and owls, and my mother would lead them to the little

Formica-topped table where we ate. They would seat

themselves on our chairs while my mother ran in and out of

the kitchen, making tea and frying luchis and shingaras,

while we watched in awe, our hands joined in prayer. We

would offer sweets to the swan and the owl, and Ma Kali

would smile at us with her burning eyes, and Ma

Shoroshshoti would play a note or two on her sitar and Ma

Lokhkhi would sit crosslegged on her lotus, holding up her

hand, looking just as she does on the labels of ghee tins.’

She paused at the open door of a workshop. ‘Let’s try

this one,’ she said, leading him in. They stepped through the

open doorway, into the workshop’s dimly lit interior, and

found themselves staring into a teeming crowd of smiling,

flesh-coloured faces.

Urmila spotted a moving figure somewhere among the

stationary images. ‘Is somebody there?’ she called out.

‘Who is it?’

The figure vanished as quickly as it had appeared, behind

a six-foot dancing Ganesh.

‘We just wanted to talk to you,’ Urmila said.

An elderly man materialized suddenly in front of her,

detaching himself from a pantheon on a plinth. He was

wearing a dhoti and a string vest and his thin, ill-tempered

face was screwed into a scowl. Stepping away, Urmila very

nearly impaled herself on a spear, upraised in the hands of a

serene Ma Durga.

‘Careful,’ the man snapped. He looked her over

suspiciously as she straightened her damp, dirt-streaked

sari. ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘We’re very busy right

now; no time to talk.’

Urmila stiffened, falling immediately into her professional

manner. ‘I am a reporter for Calcutta,’ she said, in a crisp,

firm voice. ‘And I’d like to ask you a question.’

The man’s frown deepened. ‘What question?’ he said.

‘Why? I don’t know anything. We’re not involved in

politics.’

‘It’s not about politics.’ Urmila thrust Murugan’s drawing

into his hands. ‘Can you tell me what kind of image this is?’

The man narrowed his eyes, directing a sharp glance at

Murugan. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,’ he

said, handing the drawing back. ‘I know every divine image

there is and I’ve never seen one like this.’

Urmila turned to Murugan to translate, but he cut her

short.

‘I got that,’ he whispered. ‘But something tells me he’s in

denial mode.’

‘You don’t know anything about this image, then?’

Urmila said to the man in the dhoti. ‘Are you sure?’

‘What did I tell you?’ the man said, his voice rising.

‘Haven’t I said “no” already? How many times do I have to

say it?’

A couple of younger men had gathered around them

now. Urmila held the drawing out to them but the older man

cut her short.

‘What can they tell you?’ he said. ‘They’re just boys.’ He

herded Urmila and Murugan quickly towards the door,

muttering under his breath. He saw them to the door and

shooed them impatiently off: ‘Go on, go on, there’s nothing

for you here.’ He watched them leave and then disappeared

into the interior of the workshop.

‘Well,’ said Murugan, dusting his hands. ‘I guess that’s

as much as we’re going to get from him.’

Urmila was about to walk away when Murugan pulled her

to an abrupt halt. ‘Look!’ he said, with a sudden intake of

breath. ‘Over there.’ His finger was pointing at a child, a six-

or seven-year-old girl, who was sitting by the roadside

playing with a doll.

‘At what?’ said Urmila.

‘Look at what she just put into her doll’s hands,’

Murugan whispered into her ear.

Now, looking closely, Urmila noticed that the girl was

trying to push a tiny semicircular object into the unyielding

grasp of her sightless plastic doll. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘I

can’t tell.’

‘Don’t you see?’ said Murugan. ‘It’s a little stylized

microscope, just like the one I saw.’ He gave her a nudge:

‘Go on, ask her, ask her where she got it.’

Urmila took a step forward, and as her shadow

approached, the girl glanced up, her eyes widening warily.

Urmila gave her a reassuring smile and sank slowly down to

her knees, beside her.

‘Why, how beautiful,’ she said, speaking softly, in a

child’s Bengali, pointing at the tiny microscope, now firmly

lodged in the dolls hands.

‘It’s mine,’ the girl said defensively, closing her fist upon

the doll’s hand.

‘Yes, of course it’s yours,’ said Urmila. ‘Your father gave

it to you, didn’t he?’

The girl nodded, moving her head slowly up and down.

She cocked her head at the workshop. ‘My father is in

there,’ she said. ‘He’s made a lot of them.’

‘Oh?’ said Urmila, nodding encouragement.

‘He made them for the big puja tonight,’ the girl offered.

‘Really?’ Urmila smiled. ‘I didn’t know there’s a puja

tonight.’

‘There is,’ the girl nodded vigorously. ‘Today is the last

day of the puja of Mangala-bibi. Baba says that tonight

Mangala-bibi is going to enter a new body.’

‘And whose is that?’ Urmila said.

‘The body she’s chosen, of course,’ the girl said. ‘No one

knows whose it is.’

Murugan hissed into Urmila’s ear: ‘Ask her about

Lutchman.’ But before Urmila could say another word a man

burst out of the workshop. Picking up the girl, he took her

inside. Then the elderly man in the dhoti appeared again,

carrying a stick.

‘Why are you still here?’ he shouted at Urmila. ‘Why

were you talking to that child? Are you kidnappers? I’m

going to call the police, right now.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Urmila, rising to her feet. ‘We’re

going.’ She tapped Murugan on the arm and set off briskly

down the lane.

■

■

■

thirty-six

ANTAR WAS DRIFTING OFF to sleep when Ava began to

emit an urgent summons. It wasn’t very loud and Antar felt

it before he heard it, in his belly, reverberating through the

floor.

Antar made his way gingerly into the living room, and

spotted the outer nimbus of a package, deep inside Ava’s

delivery slot. It was a folder from the personal terminus of

the Council’s Assistant-Secretary General for Human

Resources. It began by thanking him for the time and effort

he had already invested in the L. Murugan case. Then, in

polite but uncompromising language, it informed him that

since he was already ‘cognizant of the details’ it had been

decided that he should proceed with a further investigation

of the matter. He was thus given authority to open up a

direct line to the Council’s representative in Calcutta, in

order to conduct whatever interrogations were necessary

(there followed a lengthy sequence of codes and

clearances).

Antar spent a few minutes lashing together a raft of

commands to take Ava through to Calcutta. When he was

ready he went into the kitchen and splashed water over his

face.

Tara’s apartment was still dark, except for a light in the

living room, which she always left on, night and day. As

Antar was patting his face dry something shot up out of the

air-shaft and began to knock furiously on the glass window

pane. Antar recoiled, throwing his arms up: it was a pigeon,

flapping against the glass. Its beady red eyes fixed on him

for an instant, and then it was gone.

Antar poured himself a glass of water and carried it into

his living room. Then he began the process of arming the

raft.

It took exactly 5.65 seconds before the raft came to a stop

at the personal terminus of the Director of the Council’s

office in Calcutta. It ran up against a barrier and began to

thrash about, like a fish at a lock, sending back frantic

signals: there was no one in the office and the only person

who was directly connected was the Director himself. And

the Director was at his residence, with the privacy controls

in his surveillance system activated. Ava wouldn’t be able

to get through without a Shatter Command.

Antar looked up the code in his list of clearances and fed

the command in. It took Ava just an instant to break through

and a moment later a holographic projection of the Director

appeared in Antar’s living room, half-size. He was standing

under a shower, a tall paunchy Peruvian. His eyes were

closed and he was crooning to himself and scratching his

balls.

Resisting the temptation to say ‘Boo!’ Antar cleared his

throat with a gentle cough.

The Director opened one eye very slowly, looking around

in disbelief. When he saw what was happening, his hands

flew down to cup his genitals. He began to scream, his voice

rising from a soundless wheeze into a high-pitched shriek.

He dropped to all fours and began crawling furiously,

dripping soap and water on the floor. Antar guessed he was

heading for a towel, but he couldn’t see the rest of the

bathroom: to him, the director looked frantically stationary,

in the middle of his living room, as though he were crawling

on a conveyor belt.

The Director jumped to his feet, grabbed a towel and

wrapped it around his middle. ‘You fucking son-of-a-bitch,’

Ava translated, into gleefully demotic Arabic, as the Director

began to scream at Antar. ‘You can’t do this! I’ll have you

brought to book I’ll see you pay for this! You’ll go to jail,

you wait…’

Antar tried to explain but he wouldn’t listen. So Antar hit

the bathroom with the Alert signal until he quieted down

and went to look for his clothes.

He went on grumbling while he dressed. ‘You don’t know

what it’s like here,’ he muttered, pulling on his trousers. ‘I

have to run the whole office myself.’

‘Is it hard work?’ Antar said, trying to sound

sympathetic.

‘Hard work!’ cried the Director laughing sarcastically.

‘That’s the problem; there’s no work at all, now that the river

doesn’t flow through the city any more. I have to make work

for the office. I keep recommending projects but the people

here won’t let the Council touch a thing: I’ve never seen

anything like it. In the last year they’ve only let us start one

project. And you know what that is?’

‘What?’ said Antar.

‘A shelter!’ said the Director, throwing up his hands. ‘A

shelter for the needy is how we describe it. They have a big

fort here, called Fort William. It was built by the British in the

eighteenth century. The Council requisitioned it, but then

couldn’t figure out what to do with it. The only thing

everyone could agree on was the shelter idea. So that’s what

I do now, I run a shelter.’

He had finished dressing and was sitting at his terminus,

looking through his files. ‘All right, what was it you were

asking about?’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘An ID

card in an inventory? That’s easy—there’s only one place it

could have come from.’

He made a couple of short-sighted jabs at his keyboard.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought so. It was in an inventory that

came from the Fort William Shelter.’

‘Go on,’ said Antar.

‘Well,’ said the Director, ‘it seems to have been found in

the Department of Alternative Inner States…’

He gave Antar a wink, over his shoulder. ‘What we old-

timers used to call asylums,’ he said. ‘It says here it was

entered into the system this morning. They found it while

registering an inmate. They always do a strip search when

they bring someone in.’

Peering into the panel, he gave Antar a sly grin. ‘From

what I can see here,’ he said, ‘I would say the guy you’re

looking for is experiencing an inner state that is about as

alternative as it can be.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Antar.

‘He wouldn’t give a name,’ said the Director.

‘Where was he found?’

The Director peered at his panel again. ‘It says here,’ he

said, ‘that he turned himself in at a railway station—a place

called Sealdah.’

‘When can I talk to him?’ said Antar.

‘You want to talk to him?’ groaned the Director. ‘You

realize I’ll have to bring him here? This is the Council’s only

secured communications facility here—right in my home.

What if he experiences an alternative inner state while he’s

here? What if he wrecks the place? What if he wrecks the

terminus?’

‘I’ll make sure you’re insured,’ said Antar. ‘Just have him

here: as soon as you can.’ He cut the Director off before he

could protest.

Then he stumbled back to bed.

■

■

■

thirty-seven

WALKING PAST the pavement stalls on Shyama Prasad

Mukherjee Road, Urmila caught a whiff of the irresistible

smell of fish cutlets and dhakai parotha wafting through the

doors of the Dilkhusha Cabin.

‘I’ll die if I don’t eat soon,’ she remarked to Murugan.

She lost no time in propelling him into the eatery. Leading

him to a curtained booth, she slid on to a bench and

signalled to Murugan to seat himself opposite her. A waiter

appeared almost immediately, with two limp menu cards in

his hand. Urmila ordered for them both, and as soon as the

waiter left, she pulled the curtain shut.

‘Tell me,’ she said, leaning across the table. ‘Who is this

Lachman you keep talking about?’

‘You mean Lutchman,’ Murugan corrected her. ‘That’s

how Ronnie Ross would have said it; that’s how he spelt it,

anyhow.’

‘But the name must have been Lachman,’ said Urmila.

‘Ross probably just spelt it in a British kind of way.’

‘Same difference,’ said Murugan. ‘Who knows what his

mother called him? We weren’t there. Anyways, Lutchman

was this young guy who walked into Ronnie Ross’s life on

May 25 1895 at 8 P.M., offering himself as a guinea pig. He

ended up spending the next three years doing everything for

Ron, from slicing his breakfast bagels to counting his slides.

Every time Ron went running off in the wrong direction,

Lutchman was waiting to head him off and show him the

way to go. He claimed to be a “dhooley-bearer” by trade, but

my guess is that he was leading Ronnie by the nose.’

‘But,’ said Urmila, ‘how would he have known about

where to lead Ronald Ross?’

‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘I’ll cut it short for you: a few

years ago I found a letter that was written in Calcutta, by an

American missionary doctor called Elijah Farley. Before he

got religion Farley was doing medical research back in the

States, at Johns Hopkins. As a student he’d worked with

some of the biggest names in malaria research.

‘Well, the last thing he ever wrote was this letter in which

he described a visit to Cunningham’s laboratory in Calcutta.

He saw some stuff there that was—oh, maybe three or four

years ahead of the state of play in the international scientific

community. None of it made any sense to him, of course,

because it didn’t fit with anything he’d ever been taught.’

‘Don’t talk so fast,’ said Urmila. ‘I’m not sure I

understand what you’re trying to tell me. Are you talking

about Cunningham’s own research?’

Murugan laughed: ‘No. Cunningham didn’t have a clue.’

‘So who was doing this work, then?’

‘The way Farley saw it,’ said Murugan, ‘it was the people

in the lab, Cunningham’s servants and assistants.’

‘But surely,’ said Urmila, ‘Cunningham’s assistants

would have told him what they were doing.’

‘It’s like this,’ said Murugan. ‘Cunningham’s assistants

were a pretty wild mix. You see, he didn’t want educated

college kids from Calcutta messing around in his lab, and

asking questions and stuff. So what he did instead was he’d

train his own assistants.’

‘Who were they?’ Urmila asked. ‘And where did he find

them?’

‘In the last place anyone would think of looking,’ said

Murugan. ‘At Sealdah railway station. The station hadn’t

been around that long, but if you wanted to find people who

were pretty much on their own, down and out with nowhere

to go, that was the place to look. Cunningham used to check

out the whole station every once in a while and when he saw

a likely looking kid he’d offer them room and board in

exchange for work—nothing fancy, just a minimum-wage

kind of job around the lab, sweeper, “dhooley-bearer”, that

sort of shit. They’d jump at it, of course: what did they have

to lose? They’d live in those outhouses near the hospital

wall, and help around the lab. It was a nice, cosy little set-

up.’

‘So he taught them?’ said Urmila. ‘And trained them and

so on?’

‘Not really,’ said Murugan. ‘He may have taught them

how to read a little English and he probably showed them a

couple of things—but just monkey-see, monkey-do kind of

stuff. They probably didn’t give a shit anyway. But there

was this one person, a woman, who took to the lab like a

duck to water. My guess is that within a few years she was

way ahead of Cunningham in her intuitive understanding of

the fundamentals of the malaria problem.’

‘But who was this woman?’ said Urmila. ‘And what was

she called?’

Murugan smiled: ‘The way Farley tells it,’ he said,

drawing his sleeve across his damp forehead, ‘her name was

Mangala.’

Urmila gasped. ‘Mangala?’ she cried. ‘You mean like

Mangal-bibi—like the name the girl said?’

‘I guess you could call her a prototype,’ said Murugan.

‘And as for who she was—who knows? The only indication

we have that she even existed was in this letter written by

Elijah Farley. And even that letter isn’t around any more: at

least it’s untraceable in the catalogues.’

‘What did Elijah Farley say about her?’

‘Not much,’ said Murugan. ‘All he knew was what

Cunningham told him—which was that he found her at

Sealdah Station, that she was dirt poor and that she

probably had hereditary syphilis. But then the big question

is: did Cunningham find her or did she find him? Anyway,

Farley saw things happening in the lab that left him in no

doubt that she knew a whole lot more about malaria than

Cunningham could ever have taught her.’

‘Really?’ said Urmila, her forehead wrinkling in disbelief.

‘Is it possible that she could have taught herself something

as technical as that?’

Murugan shrugged. ‘Similar things have been known to

happen,’ he said. ‘Think of Ramanujan, the mathematician,

down in Madras. He went ahead and reinvented a fair hunk

of modern mathematics just because nobody had told him

that it had already been done. And with Mangala we’re not

talking about mathematics: we’re talking about microscopy,

which was still an artisanal kind of skill at that time. Real

talent could take you a long way in it—Ronnie Ross’s career

is living proof of that. With this woman we’re talking about a

whole lot more than just talent; we may be talking genius

here. You also have to remember that she wasn’t hampered

by the sort of stuff that might slow down someone who was

conventionally trained: she wasn’t carrying a shit-load of

theory in her head, she didn’t have to write papers or

construct proofs. Unlike Ross she didn’t need to read a

zoological study to see that there was a difference between

culex and anopheles: she’d have seen it like you or I can see

the difference between a dachshund and a Dobermann. She

didn’t care about formal classifications. In fact she didn’t

even really care about malaria. That’s probably why she got

behind Ronnie Ross and started pushing him towards the

finish line. She was working towards something altogether

different, and she’d begun to believe that the only way she

was going to make her final breakthrough was by getting

Ronnie Ross to make his. She had bigger things in mind than

the malaria bug.’

‘Like what?’ said Urmila.

‘The Calcutta chromosome.’

With a discreet cough, the waiter parted their curtain, and

placed their orders on the table.

Urmila waited till he had left.

‘What was that you just said?’

‘The Calcutta chromosome,’ said Murugan. ‘That’s my

name for what she was working towards.’

‘Now I’m really lost,’ said Urmila. ‘I’ve lived here all my

life and I’ve never heard of this thing you’re talking about.’

‘And who knows if you ever will?’ said Murugan. ‘Or

whether I will. Or whether it exists or has ever existed. At

this point in time it’s still all guesswork on my part.’

‘But you must have something to found your guesses

on,’ said Urmila.

Murugan made no answer. ‘Go on,’ Urmila prompted,

almost pleading. ‘We’re caught in this together, after all. I

have a right to know.’

Murugan hesitated. ‘Are you really sure you want to

know?’

She nodded.

‘OK, I’ll tell you what started me off,’ said Murugan

reluctantly. ‘It seemed to me from Farley’s letter that

Mangala was actually using the malaria bug as a treatment in

another disease.’

‘What disease?’

‘Syphilis,’ said Murugan. ‘Or to put it more precisely,

syphilitic paresis—the final paralytic stage of syphilis. From

Farley’s account it seems there was an underground

network of people who believed that she possessed a cure.

Remember that we’re talking about the 1890s—long before

the discovery of penicillin. Syphilis was untreatable and

incurable: it killed millions of people every year, all around

the world. These people who came to see Mangala may have

believed that she was a witch or a magician or a god or

whatever: it doesn’t matter—the conventional medical

treatments for syphilis at that time weren’t much more than

hocus-pocus either. Let’s just stick with that old saying

about no smoke without a fire. If a whole crowd of people

believed that Mangala had a cure, or a halfway effective

treatment, it must have been because she had a certain rate

of success. People aren’t crazy: if they travelled long

distances to see her they must have thought she offered

some kind of hope.’

‘What do you think that treatment was?’ said Urmila.

‘I’m just guessing wildly here, OK? But if you twisted my

arm, I’d say that she’d stumbled upon some variant of a

process that got a guy called Julius Wagner-Jauregg the

Nobel in 1927. Guess what that treatment was?’

Urmila looked up from her plate. ‘You know perfectly well

I have no idea,’ she said. ‘What was it?’

Murugan poked a finger into the crisp, rounded top of his

dhakai parotha, releasing a puff of steam. ‘All right, I’ll tell

you,’ he said. ‘What Wagner-Jauregg showed was that

artificially induced malaria often cured, or at least mitigated,

syphilitic paresis. What he’d do is, he’d actually inject

malarial blood into the patient by making a little incision. It

was a pretty crude process, but the weird thing is that it

worked. In fact, until antibiotics, the Wagner-Jauregg

process was pretty much a standard treatment: every major

VD hospital had its little incubating room where it grew a

flock of anopheles. Think about it: hospitals cultivating

disease! But on the other hand, what could be more natural

than fighting fire with fire? You could say vaccines work on

the same sort of principle really, but what they do is to prime

your immune system against themselves. This is the only

instance known to medicine of using one disease to fight

another.

‘To this day no one really knows how the Wagner-

Jauregg treatment worked. Not that anyone’s losing any

sleep over it. It was a scientific scandal and medicine was

almost grateful to turn its back on it once antibiotics came

along. Old Julius didn’t worry too much about how it worked

either. He was no biologist, remember: he was a clinician and

a psychologist. He thought the process worked by raising

the patient’s body temperature. It didn’t seem to bother him

that no other fever had the same effect.

‘But it’s quite possible that malaria worked on paresis

through a different route: the brain, for example. One of the

things that syphilis does is that it muddies up the blood!

brain barrier. Malaria works on the brain too, in different

ways: that’s why falciparum malaria is also called cerebral

malaria. But other kinds of malaria have weird neural effects

too. A lot of people who’ve had malaria know that: it can be

more hallucinogenic than any mind-bending drug. That’s

why primitive people sometimes thought of malaria as a kind

of spirit-possession.

‘Enter Mangala: it looks like she hit upon this treatment

too, at about the same time as the Herr Doktor. But she

added a little twist to it. From what we know of her

technique, it sounds like she was working with some weird

strain of malaria—that is, by some kind of primitive horse-

breeding method she had developed a strain that could

actually be cultivated in pigeons. My hunch is that she

found some way of making the bug cross over, so that the

bird could be used like a test tube, or an agar plate.

‘Now here’s the really wacky stuff. I’ll just stick my neck

out and say it: I think what happened was that somewhere

down the line Mangala began to notice that her treatment

often produced weird side effects—what looked like strange

personality disorders. Except that they weren’t really

disorders but transpositions. She began to put two and two

together and found that in fact what she had on her hands

was a crossover of randomly assorted personality traits,

from the malaria donor to the recipient—via the bird of

course. And once she saw this she became more and more

invested in isolating this aspect of the treatment, so that she

could control the ways in which these crossovers worked.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Urmila. ‘What exactly are you

trying to say?’

‘What am I saying? Well, what I’m saying is this: I think

Mangala stumbled on something that neither she nor Ronnie

Ross nor any scientist of that time would have had a name

for. For the sake of argument let’s call it a chromosome:

though the whole point of this is that if it is really a

chromosome, it’s only so by extension, so to speak—by

analogy. Because what we’re talking about here is an item

that is to the standard Mendelian pantheon of twenty-three

chromosomes what Ganesh is to the gods; that is, different,

non-standard, unique—which is exactly why it eludes

standard techniques of research. And which is why I call it

the Calcutta chromosome.

‘One of the reasons why the Calcutta chromosome can’t

be found by normal methods is because unlike the standard

chromosomes it isn’t present in every cell. Or if it is, it’s so

deeply encrypted that our current techniques can’t isolate it.

And the reason why it isn’t present in every cell is because

unlike the other chromosomes it’s not symmetrically paired.

And the reason why it’s not paired is because it doesn’t

split into eggs and sperm. And guess why that is? I’ll tell

you: it’s because this is a chromosome that is not

transmitted from generation to generation by sexual

reproduction. It develops out of a process of recombination

and is particular to every individual. That’s why it’s only

found in certain kinds of cells: it simply isn’t present in

regenerative tissue. It only exists in non-regenerating tissue:

in other words, the brain.

‘Let me put it like this: if there really is such a thing as the

Calcutta chromosome only a person like Mangala, someone

who’s completely out of the loop, scientifically speaking,

would be able to find it—even if she didn’t know what it was

and didn’t even have a name for it. For what we have here is

a biological expression of human traits that is neither

inherited from the immediate gene pool nor transmitted into

it. It’s exactly the kind of entity that would be hardest for a

conventional scientist to accept. Biologists are under so

much pressure to bring their findings into line with politics:

right-wing politicians sit on them to find genes for

everything, from poverty to terrorism, so they’ll have an alibi

for castrating the poor or nuking the Middle East. The left

goes ballistic if they say anything at all about the biological

expression of human traits: it’s all consciousness and soul at

that end of the spectrum.

‘But if you think about it, it figures that certain kinds of

traits would have a biological correlate. But who said they

have to be determined by biology? Maybe it even works the

other way around—that they leave their imprint on biology.

Who knows?

‘And just because those biological correlates aren’t

transmitted by sexual reproduction, it doesn’t mean that

they can’t be transferred between individuals by other

methods. And that’s where Mangala comes up to bat.

Remember that she started at the deep end, by stumbling

upon the process of transmission, rather than the

chromosome itself—after all she didn’t know what a

chromosome was. No one did back then. Remember that it

was malaria that led her to it. Remember that one of the

extraordinary things about the malaria bug is that it has the

capacity to ‘cut and paste’ its DNA—unlike any creature we

know of except the trypanosome. Remember that’s one of

the reasons why it’s been so hard to develop a malaria

vaccine. Because what’s special about the malaria bug is

that as it goes through its life cycle it keeps altering its coat-

proteins. So by the time the body’s immune system learns to

recognize the threat, the bug’s already had time to do a little

costume-change before the next act.

‘Perhaps what Mangala chanced upon was just this: that

the malaria bug, because of its recombinatory powers, can

actually digest this bit of DNA by splitting it up and

redistributing it. Then, when it’s reintroduced in a patient

whose blood/brain barrier’s been made spongy, perhaps it

can carry the information back and make some tiny little

rewirings in the host’s wetware.

‘I reckon that once she stumbled on the process she

dropped everything else and began to concentrate on

refining it—in two directions. One was in trying to figure out

some way of side-stepping the syphilis step. And the other

was in trying to stabilize the chromosome during the process

of transference. Because what was happening till then was

that the bug was breaking it up in the weirdest ways and she

wanted to be able to control the kinds of traits that were

being transmitted.

‘It’s my guess that by about 1897 Mangala had run into a

dead end, and she’d come to the conclusion that the existent

strains of malaria wouldn’t let her go any further. That’s why

she was so desperate to have Ronnie figure the whole thing

out and publish it. Because she actually believed that the

link between the bug and the human mind was so close that

once its life cycle had been figured out it would

spontaneously mutate in directions that would take her work

to the next step. That was what she believed, I think: that

every time she reached a dead end, the way ahead was by

provoking another mutation.’

Pushing away her empty plate, Urmila said: ‘How?’

‘By trying to make certain things known.’

‘So did she succeed?’ she asked.

Murugan smiled. ‘I think we’re going to find out.’

‘How?’

‘My guess is that that’s what this experiment is about.’

‘But why in this way? Why not…?’

‘Don’t you get it?’ said Murugan. ‘She’s not in this

because she wants to be a scientist. She’s in this because

she thinks she’s a god. And what that means is that she

wants to be the mind that sets things in motion. The way

she sees it, we can’t ever know her, or her motives, or

anything else about her: the experiment won’t work unless

the reasons for it are utterly inscrutable to us, as

unknowable as a disease. But at the same time, she’s got to

try and tell us about her own history: that’s part of the

experiment too.’

‘Why are you talking about her as if she was still alive?’

said Urmila. ‘Are you really trying to say that she is? That

she somehow managed to…?’

Murugan smiled. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

Crossing her arms, Urmila hugged herself, suddenly cold.

‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said. She took hold of the

booth’s curtain and tweaked it back.

The moment she looked into the cabin, everything

seemed to stop; it was as though everyone in the room had

turned to stare—the other customers, the waiters, the

dishevelled college students at the next table—as though

they had been waiting all along to see her face.

She pushed the curtain quickly shut.

‘But what about Lutchman?’ she said. ‘Nothing you’ve

told me proves any connection between Mangala and

Lutchman. For that matter who was Lutchman? What was

his past?’

‘You’ve got me there, Calcutta,’ Murugan said. ‘That’s

where I keep coming up short. All I have is bits and pieces—

no beginning, no middle and definitely no end.’

‘Give me examples,’ said Urmila. ‘What are these bits and

pieces you’re talking about?’

‘Farley’s letter is the main source,’ said Murugan. ‘Farley

says there was another guy working with Mangala at

Cunningham’s lab. He seems to have been about the same

age as Lutchman and he fits the same general profile.’

‘That’s not much to go on,’ said Urmila.

‘That’s true,’ Murugan acknowledged, ‘except that a

couple of references in the letter seem to suggest that this

assistant was the same guy who turned up at Ross’s door

on May 25 1895.’

‘Like what?’ said Urmila.

‘Well, one thing we know about Lutchman, from another

source, is that he was digitally challenged—that is, his left

hand was missing a thumb. It doesn’t seem to have made

any difference to his manual skills. He was probably born

that way, because his index finger seems to have retrained

itself to do the thumb’s job…’

Something stirred in Urmila’s mind, a distant memory.

‘What’s up?’ said Murugan. ‘Why’re you frowning?’

She bit her lip: ‘I thought I’d remembered something, but

I can’t place it. Anyway, go on. Does Farley say anything

about the assistant’s hand?’

‘Nothing explicit,’ said Murugan. ‘But there’s a sentence

where he says: “he was surprisingly deft given the

circumstances”. Something like that, anyway. My guess is

that the “circumstances” he’s referring to had something to

do with the guy’s hand.’

‘Is that all?’ Urmila said in disappointment.

‘There’s just one other thing. At the end of the letter

Farley said that the assistant had been using an assumed

name.’

‘So what was his real name then?’

‘I wish I knew,’ said Murugan. ‘But I don’t. Farley didn’t

mention it in his letter. He left Calcutta the same day he

posted the letter. He was seen boarding a train at Sealdah

Station and a young man who fits the assistant’s description

was carrying his luggage. They were also seen getting off

the train together later, at a deserted little station. Farley was

never seen again. A few months later, in May 1895,

“Lutchman”

walked

into

Ronald

Ross’s

lab

in

Secunderabad.’

‘That could just be a coincidence,’ said Urmila.

‘Could be,’ said Murugan. ‘But there’s another

coincidence left to account for.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s just this,’ said Murugan. ‘I’ve established from a

different source that Lutchman’s name wasn’t a real name

either.’

‘What was it?’ said Urmila.

‘Laakhan.’ said Murugan.

Urmila’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘Quick: what was the name of the station where Farley and

the assistant were last seen?’

‘Renupur,’ said Murugan.

She stared at him soundlessly.

Murugan took hold of her hand and shook it. ‘Hey, wake

up,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s just that I think I may be able to fill in a part of the

picture,’ Urmila said.

‘How come?’

‘Last night I went home with Sonali-di and she told me

something: a story she’d heard from her mother, about

something that happened to Phulboni many years ago.’

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thirty-eight

IN 1933, SOON AFTER he got his first and only job,

Phulboni was sent on a trip to the remote provincial town of

Renupur.

Phulboni was working for a well-known British firm,

Palmer Brothers, which made soaps and oils and other

household goods. The company was famous for its

extensive distribution network, which reached into the

smallest towns and villages. Every new recruit to the

company had to spend a couple of years travelling within a

region, visiting village shops, getting to know the local

merchants, sitting in tea-stalls, visiting fairs and fairgrounds.

Being new to the job, Phulboni had never heard of

Renupur. Upon making enquiries he was pleasantly

surprised to discover that, tiny though it was, the town

boasted a railway station. A train that connected Calcutta to

the cotton market of Barich passed through it every other

day.

As the crow flies, Renupur was no more than three

hundred miles from Calcutta but the journey was a slow and

rather tedious one, meandering as it did through Darbhanga

and a wide swath of the great Maithil plain. But far from

being dismayed at the thought of spending two days on a

train, Phulboni was delighted: he loved everything to do

with the railways—stations, engines, Bradshaws, the acrid

creosote smell of teakwood sleepers. There was nothing he

liked better than to daydream by an open window with the

wind in his face. He was particularly enthusiastic on this

occasion because he had been told that the forests near

Renupur offered good hunting. Typically, he had spent his

first month’s salary on a new .303 rifle. Now he was looking

forward to the prospect of putting the gun to use.

It was mid-July. The monsoons had set in and the whole

of eastern India was awash in rain. Several of the famously

restless rivers of the region had burst their banks and swept

across the broad, flat plains. Those waters, so full of menace

to those they nourished, presented an entirely different

aspect to a casual spectator in a train, watching from the

safety of a tall embankment. The still waters, lying in great

silver sheets under the lowering monsoon skies, presented

an enchanting, bewitching spectacle. Phulboni, raised

amidst the hills and forests of Orissa, had never seen

anything like this before: this majestic, endless plain

mirroring the turbulent heavens.

Before leaving Darbhanga Phulboni had asked the guard

on the train to let him know before they arrived in Renupur.

The journey took eight hours, but to the young writer it

seemed to pass in a matter of minutes. Long before he had

slaked his appetite for the landscape, the guard appeared to

tell him that they were almost at Renupur.

Phulboni was astonished: looking out of the window all

he could see were flooded fields, the still waters broken only

by the careful geometry of bunds and embankments. An

occasional distant curl of wood smoke, spiralling out of a

thicket of trees, suggested a village or a hamlet but he could

see no sign whatever of habitation on a scale that might earn

entitlement to a railway station.

On expressing his surprise to the guard Phulboni learnt,

to his alarm, that the town (or rather village) of Renupur was

some three miles distant from the station that bore its name.

Renupur was by no means large or important enough to

merit a deviation in the tracks that linked Darbhanga to

Barich. Those of Renupur’s villagers who wished to avail

themselves of this facility were expected instead to make the

journey to the station in a bullock cart. Indeed, the station of

Renupur owed its existence more to the demands of

engineering than to the requirements of the local population.

Railway regulations decreed that single-track lines such as

this were required to have sidings at regular intervals, so

that oncoming trains could pass each other in safety. It was

thus that Renupur came to boast of a station: it was really

little more than a signboard and a platform attached to a

siding.

It was all just red tape and regulations of course, the

guard said. There was no real need for a siding on this line.

This was the only train that ever used this length of track. It

went chugging along, stopping wherever the slightest

pretext offered itself, until it came to the end of the line. And

then it simply turned around and headed back. It never

encountered other trains until it reached Darbhanga.

The guard was an odd-looking man. He had a

grotesquely twisted face: his lower jaw was so much out of

alignment with the upper that his mouth was perpetually

open in a crooked, leering grimace. Now he began to laugh,

in his dry, rustling voice. Leaning out of the window he

pointed to a length of track that ran alongside the main line

for a couple of hundred yards before rejoining it. The tracks

were so rusted and overgrown as to be barely visible.

‘And there you see the Renupur siding,’ he said,

thrusting his face close to Phulboni’s and showering him

with blood-red pan-spittle. ‘As you can tell, it’s not used.

They say it’s only ever been used once, and that was many,

many years ago.’

Phulboni paid no attention: he was too busy wiping the

pan-stains off his face.

The train ground to a halt and the guard flung a door

open and scurried down carrying Phulboni’s gun-bag and

portmanteau. Before Phulboni could tip him, he was back on

the train waving his green flag.

‘Wait a minute,’ Phulboni cried, taken aback.

With a blast of its whistle the train pulled slowly away.

Phulboni looked around him and saw, to his considerable

surprise, that he was the only person who had disembarked

at Renupur. He cast a last, lingering glance at the train and

saw the guard watching him from a window, his mouth

hanging maniacally open. Then the train gave another blast

of its whistle and the strange twisted face vanished into a

cloud of smoke.

Phulboni shrugged and bent down to pick up his

luggage. He was impatient to be on his way to the village

and instinctively he held up a hand, to summon a coolie. It

was not till then that he noticed that there were no coolies

anywhere in sight.

The station was the smallest Phulboni had ever seen,

smaller even than those tiny village stations that sometimes

loom unexpectedly into view as one drowses in a speeding

train, only to disappear again, just as quickly. For even the

smallest stations usually have at least a platform, and often a

few wooden benches too. But the platform at Renupur was a

length of beaten earth, its surface covered in weeds and a

few cracked paving stones. Two creaking signboards hung

beside the track, separated by a hundred yards, each bearing

the barely legible legend: ‘Renupur’. Halfway between them,

serving as a signal-room-cum-station-house, was a

ramshackle tin-roofed brick structure, painted the usual

railway red. There were no houses or huts anywhere in

sight, no villagers, no railway guards, no staring rustics, no

urchins, no food-vendors, no beggars, no sleeping

travellers, not even the inevitable barking dog.

Phulboni realized, looking around him, that the station

was empty—absolutely empty. There was nobody, not a

single human being anywhere in sight. The spectacle was so

startling as literally to provoke disbelief. Stations, in the

young writer’s experience, were either crowded or less

crowded. They were less crowded when you could walk

through them unimpeded, without having to push people

aside. On the rare occasions when that happened you said,

in surprise: ‘Why, the station’s empty today!’, using the

term metaphorically, conjuring away the coolies and the

vendors and the dozing passengers and the waiting relatives

and so on who, without actually impeding your progress,

were still undeniably present. That, as far as the young

writer knew, was what the word empty meant when applied

to a station. But this? Phulboni, for all his gifts, was at a loss

to think of a word to describe a station that was literally

uninhabited and unpeopled.

The young man’s heart sank as he contemplated that

desolate spot. He had no idea where to go next or how.

There was no road or pathway in sight. The station, perched

on the railway embankment, was a little island in a sea of

shimmering floodwater.

Phulboni had been led to believe that someone would

meet him at the station: a shopkeeper or stall-owner or some

other person who dealt in Palmer’s products. But here he

was, in Renupur, and so far as he could see, he was the sole

occupant of the station. Picking up his bedding-roll, he

slung his gun over his shoulder, and set off for the signal-

room to see if he could find the stationmaster. No sooner

had he taken his first few steps than he heard a voice behind

him, calling out, ‘Sahib, sahib.’ Turning around, Phulboni

saw a tiny, bandy-legged man, scrambling up the

embankment. He was dressed in a mud-stained dhoti and a

railwayman’s coat and he was holding a brass pitcher by its

lip.

Phulboni was so relieved to see another human being

that he would gladly have embraced him. But mindful of his

status as a representative of Palmer Brothers he stiffened his

back and raised his chin.

The man caught up with Phulboni and took the bedding-

roll out of his hands.

‘Arrey, sahib,’ he said, panting. ‘What to do? Every time

the rains start it’s like this with me: back and forth, out to the

fields and in again. If I eat so much as one banana it goes

shooting right through and out again like a cannonball. It’s

an affliction. The-one-who-is-at-home always says to me,

she says, “Arrey, Budhhu Dubey, if you were a cow instead

of a stationmaster at least I would be able to do all my

cooking with your dung.” And I say to her, “Woman, think a

little before you speak. Just ask yourself, if I was a cow

instead of a stationmaster why would you need to cook for

me?”

Phulboni’s mouth twitched, but being new at the job he

was not quite sure of the tone that was expected of a

representative of Palmer Brothers in situations like these.

Sensing his hesitation, Budhhu Dubey was already the

picture of contrition.

‘Oh, sahib,’ he said. ‘Budhhu Dubey is a fool, telling a

big sahib like you about his dung. Forgive me, forgive me…’

He threw himself at Phulboni’s feet. Now it was all the

writer could do to keep him from buffing his shoes with his

forehead.

Phulboni pulled him up, brusquely. ‘Enough of that,’ he

said. ‘Tell me, how can I get to Renupur?’

‘That’s the thing,’ the stationmaster said, apologetically.

‘Even if you had a boat you would not be able to get to

Renupur today.’

Phulboni was aghast. ‘But where will I stay?’ he said.

‘What will I do?’

‘Nothing to worry about, sahib,’ said the stationmaster.

He gave Phulboni a wide grin. ‘You will stay with me.’ He

explained that a shopkeeper had sent word from Renupur

asking him to look after Phulboni.

Phulboni pondered this proposition at some length.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked finally.

‘Right there,’ said the stationmaster, ‘behind those trees.’

He pointed at a distant mango grove, perched upon a gentle

rise. To Phulboni the spot seemed to be separated from the

station by some two or three miles of waterlogged plain.

‘It won’t take a moment to get there,’ said the station-

master. ‘We’ll leave your bags in the signal room and then

we’ll start walking. You’ll see, by the time we get there, the-

one-who-is-at-home will have something special ready for

you.’

He picked up Phulboni’s bedding-roll and started

towards the signal-room, swaying on his bandy legs.

Phulboni followed close behind, carrying his canvas gun-

bag. Pushing the door gingerly open the stationmaster

ushered Phulboni in. As they stepped in a gust of wind blew

the door shut. Suddenly they were enveloped in cobwebbed

gloom.

The room was very small with only the one door and a

single shuttered window. In one corner, there stood a dusty

desk. Otherwise the room seemed abandoned and unused.

It was only when Phulboni’s eyes had grown accustomed

to the darkness that he spotted a string bed, pushed up

against the far wall. It was on old charpoy, covered with torn

matting. Phulboni went over and gave the mat a slap, raising

a cloud of swirling dust. ‘Whose is this?’ he asked the

stationmaster.

‘Oh that’s been here for ever,’ said the stationmaster’

dismissively. ‘It belongs to the snakes and rats.’ He pushed

the door quickly open and stepped out. ‘Let us go now,

sahib: it will soon be dark.’

Phulboni cast another glance around the room. This time

his eyes fell upon a small alcove in the wall. Standing inside

it was a signal lantern. Phulboni went over to take a closer

look and was pleasantly surprised to see that the lantern had

been recently cleaned and polished. The tin body was

gleaming clean and the circle of red glass in the lantern’s

window shone bright red in the reflected sunlight. Phulboni

put out a finger to tap on the glass, but the stationmaster

stopped him, hurtling across the room and pushing his hand

away.

‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘Don’t do that.’

Phulboni jumped in surprise, and the stationmaster said

vehemently: ‘No, no, it’s not to be touched.’

‘But don’t you touch it?’ said Phulboni, even more

surprised now. ‘Then who cleans it? Who polishes it?’

The stationmaster dismissed the question with a wave of

his hand, muttering something about railway property. ‘We

should set off now, sahib,’ he said trying to steer Phulboni

to the door. ‘It’s getting dark; we have to be quick now.’

The writer shrugged and bent down to pick up his

bedding-roll. ‘No,’ he said, throwing it on the charpoy. ‘No. I

am going to stay here tonight.’

The stationmaster’s mouth fell open and a look of alarm

descended on his jovial, slightly doltish face. ‘No, no sahib,’

he said, his voice rising. ‘You can’t do that—that cannot

happen. It cannot be done.’

‘Why not?’ he asked. Dilapidated though it was, the

prospect of a night in that room seemed vastly preferable to

that of wading through two miles of floodwater.

‘No, no,’ the stationmaster cried. ‘No: put it out of your

mind.’ There was a note of panic in his voice and his

forehead was beaded with sweat.

‘But I’ll be fine here,’ said Phulboni.

‘No, sahib, you mustn’t stay here,’ the stationmaster

implored him. ‘Come home with me; I won’t let you stay here

all by yourself.’

This made up Phulboni’s mind. ‘I’ll be very comfortable

here,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ He set about

unstrapping his hold-all before the stationmaster could

answer.

Like all train travellers of the time, Phulboni was wholly

prepared for an eventuality such as this: packed in his

bedding-roll were a thin mattress, a pillow and several sheets

and towels. When he unstrapped it, the bag fell open like a

ready-made bed.

‘Look,’ he said with a triumphant gesture. ‘I’ll sleep very

well here.’

‘No,’ the stationmaster said, tugging ineffectually at his

hold-all. ‘You can’t: it’s not safe.’

‘Not safe?’ said Phulboni. ‘Why? What could happen to

me here?’

‘Anything,’ said the stationmaster. ‘This is not the city,

after all. All sorts of things happen in lonely places like this:

there are thieves and brigands and dacoits…’

Phulboni burst out laughing. ‘With so much water

around,’ he said, ‘dacoits will need boats to get here. And if

they did, this is what they’d have to face.’ He tapped his

canvas gun-bag.

‘And snakes?’ said the stationmaster.

‘I’m not afraid of snakes,’ said Phulboni with a smile.

‘Where I grew up people used pythons as pillows.’

The stationmaster cast a despairing glance around the

room, at the grimy, belittered desk and the massed cobwebs

hanging from the ceiling in sooty honeycombs. ‘But what

will you eat, sahib?’ he said.

‘Since your house is so close,’ Phulboni said equably, ‘I

hope it will not be too much trouble for you to bring me

something from your kitchen.’

The stationmaster sighed. ‘All right, sahib,’ he said

reluctantly. ‘Do what you like; but just one thing: don’t

blame Budhhu Dubey later.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Phulboni. He prided himself on his

knowledge of village folk, and knew that rural people often

had set ideas about certain things. ‘If I’m attacked by snakes

or dacoits,’ he said with a smile, ‘I’ll be the one to take the

blame.’

The stationmaster left and Phulboni busied himself

unpacking his things and settling in. He forced open the

shuttered window and left the door swinging wide. Soon,

with a little dusting and cleaning, the room began to look

much more cheerful.

Encouraged, Phulboni decided to dust and clean the

charpoy too. He pulled the hold-all off the bed and carried

the frayed old mat outside and gave it a vigorous shake. A

cloud of dust rose out of it, and once it had cleared Phulboni

spotted a strangely shaped mark upon the mat; a fading,

rust-red stain. He laid the mat on the ground and took a

closer look.

It was an imprint of two large hands, placed next to each

other. But there was something puzzling about them,

something that did not quite fit. Phulboni had to turn his

head this way and that before he worked out what it was: the

imprint of the left hand showed four fingers and no thumb.

There was something just a little eerie and menacing

about that strange outline, imprinted on the yellowing rush.

He rolled the mat up and put it away, out of sight. He went

back in, heaved the hold-all up to the bare strings of the

charpoy and made a comfortable bed for himself. Then he

put out his nightclothes and laid his shaving things in a neat

row on the alcove, beside the signal lantern, in preparation

for the morning. Standing back he looked around the room:

everything was in order now, but somehow he still had a bad

taste in his mouth. He decided to go for a walk.

It was late afternoon now. The clouds had parted and the

sun was shining brightly through the rain-washed skies,

touching everything in sight with an iridescent brilliance.

Phulboni walked along the tracks, hopping from sleeper to

sleeper, watching the parallel rails shoot away towards the

horizon, slicing through the flooded, shimmering fields that

flanked the tall embankment.

When he came to the point where the tracks separated he

turned to look at the overgrown siding. He noticed fleetingly

that the steel point-tongues that joined the siding to the

main tracks were stiff and rusty with disuse. Then his eyes

fell on a family of egrets that were using the weed-covered

rails of the siding as a perch, to hunt from. Captivated, he

walked stealthily towards the birds and seated himself on a

rail, at a safe distance. A mound of raised earth—possibly

once a platform—ran between the parallel rail tracks. The

writer sat lounging, with his back against the mound, and

spent the better part of an hour watching the egrets as they

foraged amongst the frogs that were skimming the surface of

the flooded fields below.

At last, filled with a sense of peace and well-being, he

stood up and stretched. He was doubly glad now that he

had decided to stay in the signal-room instead of going to

the stationmaster’s house: this was the kind of place in

which solitude was its own reward.

He got up and walked on, balancing on a rail. It was

almost sunset now, and the scudding flat-bottomed clouds

above were shot through with streaks of scarlet and

magenta. When he came to the points switch that joined the

siding and the main line into a single track, Phulboni decided

to turn back. He stopped to cast one last glance over the

spectacular sight of the flooded fields glowing in the sunset.

Inadvertently his eyes fell upon the red handle of the

switching lever. He noticed, to his surprise, that the

mechanism looked well cared for. There was no trace of rust

on the lever and nor were the wires that connected it to the

point-rails at all overgrown, even though they ran very close

to the ground. On the contrary, the deep grooves in the

grass under them suggested regular maintenance and use.

Phulboni had an instinctive interest in machinery. He

liked the feel of cold metal, took pleasure in a good, well-

crafted piece of iron or steel. He crossed the rails and went

over to cast an appreciative eye at the gleaming iron lever: it

gave him an obscure sense of satisfaction to see a well-

cared-for piece of machinery in these unlikely surroundings.

As he leaned over, arm extended, he heard a shout.

Straightening up, he saw the stationmaster struggling up the

embankment. He was waving frantically, making signs to

Phulboni to step back from the switching lever. He had a

cloth bundle in one hand and an earthen pitcher in the other.

Phulboni realized suddenly that he was ravenously hungry.

He waved and went hurrying back along the tracks.

The stationmaster was waiting for him a hundred yards

down the track. He had an angry frown on his forehead.

‘Look,’ he said to the writer. ‘You may be a big sahib and all

that but if you know what’s good for you, you won’t meddle

with anything around here.’

He added, as an afterthought: ‘This is government

property, it belongs to the railways.’

Phulboni had been intending to compliment the station-

master on his maintenance of the station’s switching gear.

He listened now in abashed silence, unable to think of an

appropriate response.

The stationmaster thrust the cloth bundle and the earthen

pitcher into his hands. ‘Just put them in a corner after

you’ve finished,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll take care of them in

the morning.’ He shuffled quickly to the embankment and

went scrambling down the side, towards the water-logged

field below.

Recovering himself, Phulboni shouted: ‘Why don’t you

stay a minute? Eat something with me before you go.’

‘I’ll be back in the morning,’ the stationmaster answered,

over his shoulder.

There was something about this hurried departure that

disquieted Phulboni. Going to the edge of the embankment,

he called out: ‘Masterji, is there something you have not

told me?’

‘Tomorrow,’ called back the stationmaster. ‘Tomorrow…

everything… it’s getting dark…’ Hurried splashes drowned

out the sound of his voice.

Phulboni felt oddly forlorn now, standing by the deserted

rail tracks in the dying daylight. He made his way slowly

back to the signal-room and pushed the door open. It was

dark inside, but a metallic glint led his eyes to the floor. It

was the curved blade of his razor: lying beside it were the

pot of shaving soap, the brush and the lump of clear alum

that he had placed in the alcove before leaving for his walk.

Phulboni placed the food and water on the desk and

looked around to see if the window had blown open to let a

draught or a gust of wind into the room. But the window was

still firmly shut. For want of a better explanation, he decided

that the objects must have been blown off when he opened

the door. He picked them off the floor and arranged them

neatly in the alcove once again, next to the signal lantern.

He decided to eat outside while there was still some light.

Carrying the food and water to the door, he sat cross-legged

on the ground and opened the cloth bundle. He found a

stack of parathas, a generous helping of mango achar and a

heap of golden-yellow potatoes thickly encrusted in masala.

The food smelt better than anything he could ever remember

and he fell upon it with gusto.

He was halfway through his third paratha when he heard

something fall in the room behind him. He looked over his

shoulder, startled. Through the open door, he spotted his

razor and shaving things lying on the floor. Nothing had

gone into the room and the wind had died down. He had a

moment of unease but then his hunger reclaimed him and he

went on with his meal.

After he had eaten he washed his hands, drank a copious

draught of water and sat back, picking his teeth contentedly

with a twig. His sense of well-being returned now, as he sat

in the gentle breeze, listening to the chorus of frogs and

crickets that came welling up from the flooded fields below.

It was so restful, so tranquil, that something special was

called for, he decided: it was an occasion that demanded one

of his rare cheroots.

Phulboni was not much of a smoker, but once or twice a

week after a good meal he took pleasure in lighting up a

good cheroot or cigar. He remembered packing some for the

trip, but he wasn’t sure exactly where he had put them.

The signal-room was pitch dark now, but he had kept a

matchbox handy. He struck a match and at once his eyes fell

on the signal lantern, gleaming in its alcove. An idea flashed

into his mind. He picked up the lantern and shook it. The

sound of sloshing oil told him that the tank was full. He

flipped back the glass window and fumbled for the screw

that operated the wick. Giving it a couple of turns, he raised

the wick an inch or so and lit it. When he snapped the

window back into place a bright red light filled the room.

Pleased with himself, he went over to his hold-all and

began to rifle through its pockets, looking for his tin of

cheroots. He had just found it when there was a metallic

snap behind him and the light went out. Phulboni clicked his

tongue, irritated with himself for not having shut the door

before lighting the lantern. He made his way over to the desk

and lit another match. But then he took a closer look and

discovered that he had been mistaken: the flame had not

been extinguished by a gust of wind. Rather, the wick had

been lowered back into its socket with a turn of the screw.

He fiddled with the screw, frowning, wondering whether it

had come loose. It was hard to be sure, and in the end he

just turned the wick up and lit it again. This time he made

sure to put it in a corner that was well sheltered from the

wind.

Then he lit his cheroot, sitting crosslegged in the

doorway, listening to the myriad insects of the monsoon.

Halfway through the cheroot, he heard the screw in the

lantern turning once again. Casting a glance over his

shoulder he saw that the light had gone out. Phulboni froze;

a chill ran down his spine. Then he remembered his gun and

settled back reassured. There was nothing he knew of that

was proof against a .303. He went on puffing at his cheroot.

He smoked the cheroot right down to the stub and then

rose to his feet. It was something of an effort to go back into

the signal-room, but now he had no option. He knew he

would not be able to find his way to the stationmaster’s

house on his own, in the dark.

Phulboni set about preparing for the night very calmly

and deliberately. He changed into his night-time pyjamas in

the dark, rationing his matches. Then he pulled his stout

leather belt off his trousers and used it to fasten the door.

He took the gun out of its bag and placed it on the floor

beside his bed, within easy reach. Then he lay down on the

bed, facing the door. He had half-expected that he would

find himself lying awake a long time. But it had been a long

day and he was very tired: within a few minutes he was fast

asleep.

He was awoken by the touch of rain upon his face. He sat

up, startled, and reached instinctively for his gun. The door

was open, flapping in the wind, and the rain was blowing

into the room in great billowing gusts.

He struggled out of bed, cursing himself under his breath

for not having made sure of the door. The belt was lying by

the entrance, still buckled. He picked it up, pulled the door

shut and tied the belt around the doorpost again, as tightly

as he could. Stepping back he lit a match to see if the belt

would hold.

That was when he noticed that the signal lantern was no

longer in the corner where he had last placed it. He looked

around at the desk and then at the alcove: the lantern was

nowhere to be seen. It had vanished.

Phulboni was groggy with sleep and the first thought

that came into his mind was that the stationmaster must

have come in and taken the lantern while he was asleep;

maybe there was an emergency somewhere down the track.

He undid the door and looked out into the driving rain. Sure

enough, there it was: a little circle of red light, bobbing up

and down, some fifty yards down the track.

‘Masterji, masterji!’ Phulboni called out after him,

shouting at the top of his voice, through cupped hands. But

the light went on its way, and little wonder: the wind was

howling, driving the rain before it.

Phulboni gave himself no time to think. He pulled his

shoes on, wrapped a heavy towel around his body, and ran

out. For an instant he toyed with the idea of taking his gun.

But then, thinking of what the rain and mud might do to it,

he changed his mind. Squaring his shoulders he walked out

on to the track, narrowing his eyes against the buffeting

wind. It was not till he was halfway to the siding that he

began wondering how the stationmaster had let himself into

the signal-room when the door was fastened from inside.

Phulboni stumbled on, lengthening his stride to match

the gap between the sleepers. The wood was slippery with

rain, and he had to struggle to keep his footing. He had

trouble keeping the red light in sight, but he had the feeling

that he was gaining on it. Every time he caught a glimpse of

it the light seemed to be just a little closer than it was before.

Then, between two furious gusts of rain, he saw the light

change course and veer off towards the right. He wasn’t

sure of his bearings any more, but he guessed that the

stationmaster had reached the point where the tracks forked

off towards the siding. He was amazed: whatever the

emergency, it was hard to imagine why the station-master

would come all this way in a storm to go to the siding.

Now he lost sight of the light and slowed down a little.

Dark as it was, he fixed his eyes on the track, trying to make

sure that he didn’t miss the turn to the siding. when it came.

But in the end he found the turn only because he happened

to stumble upon the curved point-rails. He began to feel his

way ahead with his feet, following the tracks as they veered

off to the right.

After a few steps he stopped and looked ahead, shading

his eyes. Somewhere within a swirl of pouring rain he

spotted the bobbing red light. It seemed much closer now

and it seemed to be almost stationary.

After a few more steps he was certain. The light had

stopped moving: it was on the ground, beside the track—

probably very near the spot where he had been sitting earlier

that day, watching the egrets as they fished in the water

below. He was sure the stationmaster had seen him and was

waiting for him to catch up. Cupping his hands around his

mouth he shouted once again, at the top of his voice:

‘Masterji, masterji.’

The light seemed to bob in encouragement and he began

to run faster, as fast as he could, eager to catch up. Then

suddenly, when the light was no more than twenty feet

away, he tripped. He fell face forward but managed to throw

his hands out in time to save his forehead from smashing

into the cold steel.

He paused, in relief, to catch his breath, holding himself

up with stiffened arms, his hands clutching the rails. And

then, just as his breath was beginning to return, he felt a

tremor in the rail. He placed both hands on the rail. There

could be no doubt of it: the rail was shaking, vibrating under

an approaching train.

Phulboni was stunned: the chances of there being a train

anywhere nearby were close to nil. The train he had taken

was not due back from Barich until dawn, and there were no

other trains running on that line. And even if there were,

why would they be diverted to that siding—and who would

switch the tracks? He had been following the stationmaster

for the last several minutes, and he knew that he had been

nowhere near the switching mechanism.

And yet there was no denying the evidence of his

senses: the rails were shaking under his hands, and the

vibrations were getting steadily stronger. He laid his ear

upon the rail and listened carefully. He heard the

unmistakable rumble of an approaching train. It was

thundering towards him, very close at hand. At the last

minute he flung himself sideways, over the embankment and

went tumbling down towards the water.

Phulboni was still falling when the lights of the train

flashed across the flooded fields. Clutching wildly at a bush,

he managed to bring himself to a stop, his head inches from

the water. At that very moment he heard a scream, a raging,

inhuman howl that tore through the stormy night. It hurled a

single word into the wind—‘Laakhan’—and then it was

silenced by the thunder of the speeding train.

Phulboni was clinging to the embankment, head

downwards, facing the water. He could not see the siding

from that position, but he saw the train’s lights, very clearly,

skimming across the floodwater, he felt its weight shaking

the embankment, he heard the anguished pant of its engine

and smelt the coal in its boiler. But all the while the only

thing he could think of was how narrowly he had escaped

death.

He lay there for a few minutes shaking in fear and relief. It

was still pitch dark but the storm had let up a little. Once his

hands had steadied he pushed himself to his feet and began

to scramble up the embankment.

When he felt the ground levelling out under him, he

called out: ‘Anyone there?’ just in case whoever it was that

had screamed was still within earshot. There was no answer,

so he sank to his knees and began to pat the earth around

him, trying to find the rails. He knew he would not be able to

find his way back to the signal-room without the tracks to

guide him. After several minutes he felt a cold glancing

touch on one of his hands. Breathing a sigh of relief, he

fastened both hands upon the rail.

Disoriented as he was, it took a few minutes before

Phulboni realized that the rail, which had come so vividly

alive under his hands a short while ago, was now absolutely

still, motionless. He knew that rail tracks carry the sound of

trains for miles, in either direction. It was only a short while

since the train had passed over the siding: it could not be

more than a mile away. He put his ear to the rail and listened

carefully. The only sound he heard was the pattering of

raindrops falling on metal. Then one of his hands touched

some weeds growing over the tracks. He began to run his

hands frantically along the rail in both directions. He

discovered that the undergrowth that he had seen earlier

that day, growing over the tracks, showed no signs of

having been disturbed by the passage of a train.

Phulboni was frightened now, more than he had ever

been in his life, frightened in a way that left his brain numb,

his vision blurred. He was standing on the rail, looking

around in a daze, when he saw the red light again. It was

about a hundred yards away and it was coming slowly

towards him.

Phulboni greeted it with a shout of relief: ‘Masterji,

masterji, I’m right here…’

The shout went unacknowledged but the lantern began

to move a little faster. As he stood there watching the light

Phulboni’s head cleared a little; he peered at the lantern,

trying to catch a glimpse of the face behind it. He could see

nothing; the face remained wrapped in darkness.

Phulboni turned and ran. He ran faster than he had ever

run, gasping for breath, fighting to keep his footing on the

slippery tracks. He glanced over his shoulder once and saw

the lantern running after him, closing the gap. He ran still

faster, pushing himself on, moaning in terror.

Then he saw the signal-room taking shape in front of him,

looming out of the darkness. He flung one last glance over

his shoulder. The lantern was no more than a few paces

behind him now; a hand clearly visible upon the steel

handle.

With one final, desperate effort Phulboni flung himself at

the signal-room and stumbled through the doorway. The

gun was where he had left it, beside the bed. He snatched it

up and turned, aiming the barrel at the door.

He was fumbling with the safety catch when the lantern

appeared in the doorway. It stepped in and began to

approach him; a hand appeared, bathed in the red light of

the lantern. The face was still in darkness but suddenly that

inhuman voice rang through the room again. It said just that

one word, ‘Laakhan’.

And then Phulboni fired, point-blank, into the window of

the lantern. The report of the gun filled the room like

dynamite exploding in a cave: the recoil of the barrel caught

the writer on the chin and knocked him hard against the bed.

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thirty-nine

THE NEXT THING Phulboni knew, it was dawn and he was

staring into the stationmaster’s grinning face. He was no

longer in the signal-room: it was dawn and he was outside,

lying on his back on something soft.

‘I told the-one-who-is-at-home,’ said the stationmaster. ‘I

told her, “You’ll see there’s no need to worry, he’ll be all

right.”’

Phulboni closed his eyes. Such was his relief at finding

himself unharmed and safe that his whole body went limp.

‘I had such a time pulling you out of there, sahib,’ the

stationmaster said. ‘You would think that huge frame of

yours is made of brass. I had to pull and pull and pull: all on

my own too. But I said to myself, “Budhhu Dubey, whatever

happens you have to get him out of this terrible place; even

if you hurt your own back. As long as he’s inside here;

there’s no hope for him. You have to get him out.”’

‘What happened?’ asked Phulboni. ‘Where was I when

you found me?’

‘I came as early as I could,’ the stationmaster said. ‘The-

one-who-is-at-home woke me while it was still dark and said,

“Go now, and see if the poor man is all right.” I came

hurrying as quickly as I could. I found you lying on the floor

with your gun across your body. At first I thought you were

dead: but then I found you breathing so I pulled you out.’

‘And the lantern?’ said Phulboni. ‘I fired at it: did you see

any glass in the signal-room?’

The stationmaster frowned: ‘Which lantern?’

‘The signal lantern, ’ said Phulboni. ‘The one that was in

the room yesterday.’

‘It was in the same place,’ said the stationmaster. ‘All

polished and clean: no one ever touches it. It’s always like

that, always in the same place: always clean, never any dust

on it.’

The stationmaster fanned Phulboni’s face vigorously

with a banana leaf. ‘This station is a terrible place,’ he said.

‘No one in any of the villages around here comes within a

mile of this station after dark. You couldn’t make them come

if you gave them all the gold that is hoarded in the heavens.

I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen.’

‘I’ll listen now,’ said Phulboni. ‘I want to know what

happened.’

The stationmaster sighed. ‘I don’t know what to tell you,’

he said. ‘A big sahib like yourself. I can only tell you what

people say in these parts: simple village people like

myself…’

Phulboni, listening with his eyes closed, ran his hand

over his forehead. ‘What is it that people say?’ he said. ‘I

want to know.’

And then as luck would have it, one of his hands,

reaching back brushed against a rail, a length of cold,

vibrating steel. He opened his eyes, and found himself

gazing at an uninterrupted view of leaves and trees, outlined

against a rosy dawn sky. There was no sign of the

stationmaster or anybody else. He looked around and

discovered that he was lying on the siding, across the

tracks, on a mattress. Hesitantly he stretched out his arm

and touched the rail.

And then once again Phulboni threw himself off the

tracks. But this time he managed to halt his fall so that he

was just inches away when the train went hurtling over the

siding, over the mattress that he had just been lying on,

tearing it to shreds. This time the train was all too real: he

saw the horrified faces of the stokers and engineers as the

train thundered past; he heard the screech of its brakes and

the shriek of its whistle.

He scrambled up the siding and began to run. He caught

up with the train a mile or so away where it had finally

ground to a halt.

The stokers and engineers were examining the points and

switches, trying to work out how the tracks had been

switched. Incomprehensible, said the Anglo-Indian chief

engineer; that siding hadn’t been used in decades, the

mechanism had been dismantled years ago. The train had

almost been derailed, it was a miracle that it hadn’t, with all

the debris on those rusty, overgrown tracks.

So Phulboni said to the chief engineer: ‘Maybe the

stationmaster pulled the switch by mistake?’

The chief engineer was a grizzled old veteran. He gave

Phulboni an odd smile and said: ‘There hasn’t been a

stationmaster at Renupur for more than thirty years.’

Then the guard appeared, obsequious as ever, and led

Phulboni to an empty first class carriage. Later, when the

train had started off towards Darbhanga, he sidled up and

whispered in the writer’s ear: ‘You were lucky; at least you

are still alive.’

‘Why?’ Phulboni demanded. ‘Have there been others

who…?’

‘The year I first began this job,’ the guard said, ‘in ‘94,

there was another who was not so fortunate: he died there—

in just that way, lying on the rails, at dawn. The corpse was

so mangled that they never discovered exactly who it was,

but it was rumoured that he was a foreigner.’

He gave Phulboni a melancholy smile. ‘No one ever goes

near that station at night,’ he said.

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ said Phulboni.

‘I tried to,’ said the guard, with a crooked smile. ‘But you

would not have believed me. You would have laughed and

said, “These villagers, their heads are full of fantasies and

superstitions.” Everyone knows that for city men like you

such warnings always have the opposite effect.’

Acknowledging the truth of this Phulboni apologized and

asked the guard to sit and recount everything he knew.

For many years, the guard said, the signal-room had been

home to a young lad called Laakhan. The boy had drifted in

from somewhere up the line soon after the station was first

built. He was a stray, orphaned by famine, with a thin,

wasted body and a deformed hand. The signal-room was

empty then, because no railway employee would agree to

live in such a lonely, isolated place. So Laakhan made it his

home. The guards and stokers who passed through taught

him how to use a signal lamp and work the switches. He

made himself useful to the railways and they let him stay.

The boy was in his teens when a stationmaster was

finally found for Renupur. As it turned out this

stationmaster was an orthodox, upper-caste man: he took an

instant dislike to the lad, looking on him as an affront to

himself. He told the villagers that Laakhan was worse than

untouchable; that he carried contagion; that he was

probably the child of a prostitute; that his misshapen left

hand was a mark of hereditary disease. He tried his best to

drive the boy away from the station, but Laakhan had

nowhere to go. The boy built a bamboo shack on the tracks

of the unused siding and tried to keep out of sight.

This drove the stationmaster into an even greater fury.

On a moonless Amavasya night, during a storm, the station-

master tried to kill the boy by switching the points and

leading him before a train. But no one knew the station

better than Laakhan and he managed to escape. Instead it

was the stationmaster who tripped on a rail and fell before

the train.

That was the last time that Renupur had a stationmaster.

Phulboni’s mind was full of questions: having escaped a

similar death he was consumed with curiosity about the

boy’s fate. ‘Tell me more,’ he begged the guard. ‘What

became of Laakhan? I must know; you must tell me.’

‘There is not much else to tell,’ the guard said. ‘What

people say is that he hid himself on a train and went to

Calcutta. They say he was living at Sealdah Station when a

woman found him and gave him a home.’

‘Is that all?’ Phulboni persisted. ‘Who was the woman?

What happened to Laakhan?’

The guard pulled an apologetic face. ‘That’s all I know,’

he said. ‘Except…’

‘Except what?’

‘The man who was my predecessor at this job once told

me something. He said that he had talked to the foreigner—

the one who died at Renupur. He, the foreigner, had come up

to him on the platform, just as he was about to flag the train

out. He said that he had been travelling with a young man, a

native of Renupur. As a sahib, naturally, the foreigner was in

first class while this other man was in third. But now he

could not find the young man: he had disappeared. My

predecessor could not help him; he hadn’t noticed anyone

else getting off at Renupur. The foreigner was very annoyed

and said he would wait at the station. The guard, my

predecessor, told him that whatever happened he should not

stay the night at the station. He did everything he could to

make him leave, but the sahib only laughed, and said, “Oh,

you villagers…”’

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forty

‘OH MY GOD!’ Urmila cried suddenly, tugging at the

booth’s plastic curtain.

‘What?’ said Murugan.

‘Sonali-di,’ Urmila replied. ‘I have to find a telephone.’

She darted across the restaurant to the manager’s desk at

the back and picked up the telephone. Murugan waited to

pay the bill and then followed her over.

She was staring at the receiver in shock when he caught

up with her.

‘Sonali-di’s disappeared,’ she said. ‘She’s not in her

office, and she’s not at home. She missed a staff meeting

this morning and they’ve been trying to contact her. She

hasn’t been seen since last night. No one’s answering the

phone at her flat. Apparently I was the last person to talk to

her.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About ten thirty, I think,’ Urmila said. ‘We went to her

flat together, and I left about then.’

‘I’ve got news for you, Calcutta,’ Murugan said. ‘I saw

her after you did.’

‘What?’ Urmila cried. ‘But you don’t even know her.’

‘But I still saw her,’ said Murugan. ‘I went out to my

balcony at about one o’clock last night, and I saw her

getting out of a taxi: she went into number three Robinson

Street…’

With a wail of despair Urmila pushed him aside: ‘Why

didn’t you tell me?’ She ran to the road and flagged down a

taxi. ‘Come on,’ she called out to him, over her shoulder.

‘We have to hurry.’ Murugan climbed in after her and

slammed the door shut.

‘Robinson Street,’ Urmila said to the taxi driver. ‘Between

Loudon and Rawdon.’

Then she turned to Murugan. ‘We have to find Sonali-

di,’ she said. ‘We have to try and warn her.’

‘Why her?’ said Murugan.

‘Don’t you see?’ Urmila said. ‘Because she’s in it too:

she told me that story.’

The evening rush hour was just beginning and traffic was

very heavy once the taxi got to Chowringhee. Urmila sat

hunched over the front seat, urging the driver on.

When Murugan spoke to Urmila again it was in a voice

that was unaccustomedly quiet. ‘Listen, Calcutta,’ he said.

‘You’ve been on the move since this morning; maybe you

should give yourself a timeout here, just to think things

over.’

‘Think what over?’ said Urmila distractedly. They were

on Theatre Road now, beside the Kenilworth Hotel, and the

air was fragrant with the smell of kababs.

‘About whether you want to get any deeper into this,’

said Murugan.

‘What else could I do?’ she said, in surprise.

‘We could stop the taxi right here,’ said Murugan. ‘And

you could get out and go home; go back to whatever you

were doing.’

A shadow fell over Urmila’s face.

‘Go back home?’ Urmila said to herself, under her breath,

resting her eyes on the neat, bright buildings of the British

Council. If she went home she would have to buy fish on the

way. Her mother wouldn’t believe her if she said Romen

Haldar wasn’t really going to come to their house in the

evening, to offer her brother a First Division contract. She

could hear her already; ‘Oh, you don’t care about us at all:

your family means nothing to you; all you care about is

yourself and your career; that’s why no one will marry you;

that’s what Mrs Gangopadhyaya said the other day…’

Urmila turned to Murugan with an emphatic shake of her

head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go home.’

‘It’s your life, Calcutta,’ Murugan said philosophically.

‘You know best.’

A build-up of traffic at the Loudon Road crossing

brought the taxi rattling to a halt. Urmila turned away from

the Pierre Cardin boutique at the corner. Her eyes were

brimming with curiosity as they settled on Murugan.

‘What about you?’ she said to Murugan. ‘Why are you

going on with this? What’s kept you at it so long?’

‘Can’t you tell?’ Murugan said.

Urmila shook her head: ‘No.’

Murugan gave her a grim smile. ‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘It’s

what’s inside me.’

‘Do you mean malaria?’

‘That too,’ said Murugan.

’What else?’ said Urmila.

There was a brief pause, and then in an undertone,

Murugan said: ‘Syphilis.’

Urmila flinched, making an involuntary shrinking

movement. Murugan turned on her, eyes narrowed. ‘You

don’t have to worry,’ he said. ‘It’s not contagious: I was

officially cured a long time ago.’

‘I’m sorry…’ Urmila could not trust herself to say any

more.

Murugan kept his eyes on the shops, food-stalls and

travel agencies that flanked the road. With his face averted,

he said: ‘I guess it started somewhere over there.’ He made a

vague gesture at the skyline. ‘On Free School Street. I was

fifteen: I’d been to see a film at the Globe, after school. I was

walking past New Market, on my way home, when a guy

came up to me and whispered in my ear. I guessed he was a

pimp: I’d been reading a lot of American detective novels. I

was in my ink-stained school pants and a sweaty end-of-the-

day shirt, with my textbooks and class notes slung over my

shoulder. He was wearing a green checked lungi, and he had

a thin pencil moustache and tiny bloodshot eyes. He winked

before he whispered in my ear and gave me this toothy little

grin. I could smell the paan and stale liquor on his breath. It

was irresistible. All I had was five rupees but that was

enough. He led me down one of those tiny alleys around

Free School Street, just around the corner from the Armenian

school, where William Thackeray was born. We went up a

dark, stinking staircase that looked like it led to the anus of

the earth. But then we got to the top and suddenly there was

this great sunburst of light and noise and voices and music:

it was like walking into a fairground—a huge room, with little

curtained cubicles all around it, and vendors selling paan

and tea, and all these women sitting on chairs lined up

against the wall, with flowers around their wrists. I never

looked back; I was hooked. I loved them; I loved everything

about them, even the way they laughed behind my back

when I was running down the stairs, afterwards, my pants

half-unbuttoned.’

He fell silent, smiling to himself.

‘And then,’ he said, ‘the lesions began to appear: scabs

and sores and loosening teeth. I changed the way I dressed;

I wore a lot of clothes, more and more, even on those June

days when the heat is like a jackhammer waiting to hit you in

the face. I managed to hide the scabs for, oh, I don’t know

how long, for months anyway—even though it hurt by then,

God, it hurt. And when it was finally caught there was no

disguising it. That was why my family had to leave the city:

the shame.’

‘But syphilis is curable now, isn’t it?’ Urmila said. ‘With

antibiotics?’

‘Sure,’ said Murugan. ‘I got cured. They can cure it now

—except for what it does to your head.’

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forty-one

IT WAS THE RAIN, blowing in through the flapping

shutters, that roused Sonali. Her eyes were gummy and

swollen; she had trouble prying her eyelids open. She was

lying on her side, staring at a ribbon of dust that had

gathered along the edge of a wooden floor.

She had no idea where she was, the wall could have been

any wall, anywhere; she did not know how long she had

been there or what she was doing on the floor. Her first

instinct was to go rigid, to keep absolutely still, lizardlike, to

make herself invisible.

Lying motionless on the floor, she began to listen,

concentrating her mind on her hearing. Slowly she began to

pick up the sound of cars, on a road nearby; a Vividh-

Bharati jingle on a transistor radio; bicycle bells, a backfiring

engine, all the usual street noises, but somewhere in the

distance. But here in her immediate vicinity, there were no

sounds at all; she could hear nothing—nothing that gave

her any clues about where she was or whether there was

anyone else in the room.

And then she heard something, not so far away as the

sounds of the street: a metallic creak, the sound of an

unoiled hinge, of a heavy gate swinging slowly open. A

moment later she heard footsteps, crunching on gravel: they

seemed to be getting closer, coming towards her.

She turned over, slowly, and discovered that she was

lying on the floor of a narrow wooden gallery. Pushing

herself up she inched to the edge and looked over.

She found herself looking down upon an enormous

empty room. A fading, twilight glow was shining through a

broken skylight. She spotted a small pile of ashes and half-

burnt twigs at the far end of the cavernous room. Now it

started to come flooding back: the staircase, the noise, the

smoke, the crowd of people, gathered around a body. With a

gasp she leaned over again, looking all around her: there

was no sign of anyone; the room was empty.

The footsteps were inside the house now; they were

downstairs, probably somewhere near the staircase. Sonali

drew her head quickly back, and lay still, her breath pumping

torpidly in and out of her lungs.

They were climbing up the rotten staircase; she could

hear their shoes on the steel scaffolding. She heard the

sound of a voice—a man’s voice, somewhere outside. Then

there was a woman’s voice too; still muffled, although their

footsteps were somewhere beneath her, very close to the

reception room.

She heard the feet entering, pacing back and forth. Then

all she could hear was the sound of the blood pounding in

her ears. She closed her eyes, biting her lip, trying to

summon the courage to look down.

‘There’s no one here,’ a voice said. It was a woman

speaking—someone familiar, someone she knew.

She raised her head, very slowly, and inched forward, to

the edge. Then a cry burst from her lips: ‘Urmila!’

‘Sonali-di!’

Urmila

gasped,

spinning

around.

Simultaneously Murugan shouted: ‘She’s up there, come

on.’

Sonali allowed her head to sink to the floor, in relief. Then

they were up beside her, in the gallery, helping her down the

ladder, holding her hands, and she was crying, fighting for

her breath, and between her sobs she heard herself trying to

speak, struggling to say something coherent, but the words

came out all wrong, all mixed up, in a meaningless jumble.

‘Calm down Sonali-di,’ Urmila said. ‘It’s all right; we’re

here now. Tell me: why are you here? When did you come?’

Sonali tightened her grip on Urmila’s hand.

‘I came late last night,’ she said. ‘I came to look for

Romen; somehow I knew he would be here.’

‘Did you find him?’ Urmila asked.

Sonali began to sob again.

‘That’s the strange part, Urmila,’ she said, ‘I don’t know.’

Sonali began to tell them about the taxi to Robinson

Street, climbing the stairs, the smoke, the people, finding the

gallery, the boy, the woman in the sari, the fire, the body…

‘And then she put out her hands,’ said Sonali, ‘and

touched the body that was lying in front of the fire and

called him Laakhan. Just before I passed out I managed to

see who it was.’

She choked.

‘Who was it?’ said Urmila.

‘It was Romen.’ Sonali began to sob.

‘And the woman,’ Murugan broke in, ‘who was she? Did

you know her?’

Sonali shook her head, from side to side, wiping her tear-

streaked face on her blouse.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘She looked so familiar, but I

couldn’t remember.’

Then Urmila took her hand, elbowing Murugan out of the

way. ‘Try, Sonali-di,’ she said. ‘Try and remember. Who was

it?’

Sonali’s eyes widened as she looked into Urmila’s face.

‘It was someone you know, Urmila,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of

that: that’s why she seemed familiar—someone I’ve heard

you talk about, someone I haven’t seen in years.’

Suddenly, Urmila rocked back on her heels, dropping

Sonali’s hand. ‘No,’ she whimpered, her hands flying to her

mouth. ‘No, not Mrs…’

‘Yes,’ said Sonali. ‘That’s who it was—Mrs Aratounian.’

■

■

■

forty-two

ANTAR WOKE UP to find his bedclothes drenched in sweat

and his throat burning. He stumbled to the door, and looked

down the corridor: the kitchen seemed to slide away from

him, receding into the distance. He felt his knees weakening

and had to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. He

turned his head to look at the palm of his hand, and saw that

it was trembling, shimmering against the flat whiteness of

the wall. In rising panic he clapped his hands against his

cheeks, his chest, his sides, only to discover that he was

shaking all over.

He took one step towards the kitchen, still leaning

against the wall. It seemed a little easier now, he was just a

couple of feet from the open doorway of his living room,

halfway down the corridor, between the kitchen and the

bedroom. Leaning forward, he reached for the edge of the

doorway, trying to pull himself along.

His fingers found the doorway and took a grip on it. Then

a shiver ran through his outstretched arm and he snatched

his hand back, recoiling, as though from an unexpected

touch. He could feel the hairs bristling on his face as he

stood leaning on the wall, biting his knuckles: it was as

though something were in that room, a presence that his

body had sensed before he knew it was there.

He edged forward, slowly, pushed himself away from the

wall and stepped through the door. He stood there

transfixed, disbelieving. His knees buckled and he fell to the

floor.

Sitting gnomelike in the middle of the living room was a

naked man. A blanket of matted, ropy hair hung halfway

down a swollen, distended belly; his upper body was

encrusted with dead leaves and straw, and his thighs were

caked with mud and excrement. His hands were resting in his

lap, bound together by a pair of steel handcuffs.

He was staring at Antar with bloodshot, grime-caked

eyes; his lips drawn back in a grin, baring yellow, decaying

teeth.

‘What’s the matter?’ a voice cried out suddenly, filling

the room through Ava’s concealed sound outlets. ‘You

wanted to see me, didn’t you? I’m just a little early, that’s

all.’

Antar picked himself up and made his way slowly

towards Ava’s control panel. He found himself skirting

around the edges of the room, with his back to the walls,

keeping as far away from the figure as possible, as though it

were a real presence.

‘Where have you been?’ the figure shouted after him.

‘Why have you kept me waiting so long?’

Antar’s eyes fell on the mud-caked thighs and he turned

away, with an involuntary shudder. Reaching for Ava’s

keyboard, he rewrote the vectors of the image.

There was a tremor in the image and the man’s torso

vanished. Now only his head remained, vastly enlarged,

much larger than lifesize, blown up to the scale of a piece of

monumental statuary.

‘Guess you couldn’t bear to look at my body any more,’

said the man, laughing again.

Now Antar could see the maggots in his hair; the sight

was so grotesque that he reached for the control panel and

tilted the head away. But then, as the flat cross-section of

the neck hove slowly into view, he discovered that Ava had

done such a realistic job of severing the head that every

artery and vein was clearly visible. He could see the

throbbing capillaries; even the directional flow of the blood

was reproduced, in motion, so that the neck looked as

though it were spouting gore.

Antar choked: the head was startlingly like a vision that

often recurred in his worst nightmares; an image from a

medieval painting he had once seen in a European museum,

a picture of a beheaded saint, holding his own dripping head

nonchalantly under his arm, as though it were a fresh-picked

cabbage.

The man began to shout as his head tilted further and

further back.

‘Put me down, you bastard,’ he shouted. ‘Look me in the

eye.’

Antar tilted the image again, with a signal, and the red

glaring eyes fastened upon him. ‘So you want to know what

happened to Murugan?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Antar.

The man erupted into another burst of manic laughter.

‘Let me ask you again,’ he said. ‘Are you quite sure?’

■

■

■

forty-three

IT WAS RAINING HARD when they got down to the

pillared portico of the tumbledown old mansion. The neon

lamps on Robinson Street were glowing fuzzily greenish, like

aquarium lights. Urmila and Sonali drew their saris over their

heads as they stood under the portico, looking into the

pouring rain. Murugan started down the gravelled driveway

at a run. At the gate he stopped to look back at the two

women, who were still waiting uncertainly under the portico.

‘Come on,’ he shouted, at the top of his voice, urging

them on. ‘Let’s move it, let’s go.’

His voice came back to the portico disembodied, buffeted

by the wind, and softened by the rain. Urmila gave Sonali’s

arm a tug and they began to run, hesitantly at first, and then

faster, following Murugan as he sprinted down the road,

towards the entrance of number eight.

Turning blindly through the gate of Mrs Aratounian’s

building Murugan ran straight into something that was

standing in the narrow driveway. He picked himself up and

saw that two bamboo pushcarts were standing in the

driveway, blocking the entrance. Tents of translucent

tarpaulin rose out of them, stretched tight over jumbled

heaps of objects.

He was rubbing his knees, swearing, when Sonali and

Urmila caught up. Urmila edged quickly past the carts, made

her way to the entrance and started towards the lift. Halfway

through the dimly lit hall she noticed two men in lungis and

vests, squatting by the staircase, smoking biris. Standing

beside them was a large piece of furniture, a heavy

mahogany sideboard.

Urmila stopped dead, shifting her gaze from the two men

to the sideboard and back again. The men stared back in

unruffled calm, the biri-smoke rising above them in widening

spirals.

Sonali came to a halt beside her: ‘What’s the matter?’

‘That’s Mrs Aratounian’s,’ said Urmila, pointing at the

sideboard. ‘She used to have it in her dining room. I

remember it.’

‘You’re right,’ said Murugan. ‘I saw it there last night.’

Speaking to the two men in Hindi, Urmila said: ‘Where did

you get that?’

One of the men flicked a thumb over his shoulder,

pointing up the staircase. A moment later they heard a loud

clatter, followed by shouts and grunts. Three bare-bodied

men came around the bend in the stairs carrying a huge

chintz-printed sofa.

‘Hey!’ said Murugan. ‘That’s Mrs Aratounian’s too; I

was sitting on it last night, watching TV.’

Raising her voice, Urmila said: ‘What’s happening?’

One of the men took aim with the butt of his biri and

flicked it away, into a corner. Then he rose unhurriedly to his

feet, and stretched. ‘Someone’s leaving,’ he said with a

yawn, putting his shoulder to the sideboard. ‘And we’re

carrying away the furniture.’

‘Who’s leaving?’ Urmila said.

The man shrugged and lowered his shoulder to the

sideboard. ‘How am I to know?’

Urmila went running over to the lift and opened the door,

motioning to Murugan and Sonali to follow. They squeezed

in beside her and she pressed the button for the fourth floor.

None of them said a word as the ancient lift ascended slowly

upwards through the hollow centre of the staircase.

The lift came to a halt and Urmila stepped out. Her eyes

fell on Mrs Aratounian’s door and she froze.

The door was wide open, held in place by a brick. Light

was pouring out of the flat, gilding the scarred, dusty planks

of the landing. On the wall beside the door where the

nameplates had once hung, there were now two discoloured

rectangular spots.

Their eyes were drawn irresistibly past the door. The hall

beyond was empty; the clutter and the brio-a-brae were

gone. The walls were absolutely bare. As they stood there

staring, two men came out with jute sacks slung over their

shoulders: both were full to bursting.

Murugan was the first to move. Running through the

empty drawing room he darted into the room he had slept in

the night before. Urmila followed, walking as though in a

trance, with Sonali close behind her.

A moment later a howl echoed out of Murugan’s room:

‘My things are all gone. Everything: my laptop, my clothes,

my Vuitton suitcase, everything…’ Murugan came running

back, wild-eyed: ‘Even the bed and the mosquito net are

gone—everything…’

Footsteps sounded somewhere behind them, along the

corridor that led to the kitchen. All three of them turned in

unison and found themselves facing a thin, bespectacled

man, in a fraying shirt and trousers. He had a pencil behind

his ear, and he was holding a clipboard and a sheaf of

stapled papers in one hand. In the other he had a fistful of

peanuts.

He glared at them, his eyes hugely enlarged by his

spectacles.

‘Who

are

you?’

he

said,

with

an

uncomprehending blink. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Who are you?’ snapped Urmila. ‘And what are you

doing in Mrs Aratounian’s flat?’

The man stiffened and a frown appeared on his forehead.

His eyes flickered angrily from Urmila’s face to Murugan’s.

Then he looked at Sonali and suddenly his face went slack.

His arm rose slowly upwards, trembling, scattering peanuts

on the floor. His mouth dropped open and his eyes grew

larger, spilling out of the rims of his spectacles.

‘Why,’ he stammered, stabbing his index finger in her

direction. ‘Why, but you… you are… you are Sonali Das.’

Sonali gave him a nod and a distant smile. He swallowed

convulsively, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fisherman’s

float.

‘Do you know who she is?’ he said to the others,

spluttering in excitement, spraying a fine plume of spit in

their direction. ‘She is Sonali Das… the great actress… I

never dreamed…’

He was hopping on his toes now, his face flushed with

pleasure and excitement.

‘Oh, madame,’ he said to Sonali, ‘we see your films at

least twice every year at the Bansdroni Film Society. At my

insistence, if I may say so—I am treasurer, co-founder and

member-secretary. You can ask anyone in Bansdroni and

they’ll tell you: Bolai-da won’t let a year go by without

showing each of Sonali Das’s films at least twice. Once there

was even an impeachment motion on this score, but…’

He paused, at a loss for words, his eyes filling with tears.

‘Oh Madame Sonali,’ he said, ‘for me you are greater than

Anna Magnani in Open City, greater than Garbo in Camille,

greater even than…’

He swallowed as though gathering his courage. ‘Yes/ he

said, with an air of recklessness. ‘I will say it, why not?

Greater even than the incomparable Madhabi in Charulata.’

Sonali gave him an embarrassed smile.

Murugan could contain his impatience no longer. ‘Can

we leave this fan-club stuff till later?’ he exploded, shaking a

fist.

The man flinched, and knocked his knuckles on his skull,

as though to awaken himself from a dream. ‘I am sorry,’ he

said. ‘I should not permit myself to become so excited.’

Urmila patted him gently on the shoulder.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘You are quite right about

Sonali-di. But at the moment we have something else on our

minds. We came here to see Mrs Aratounian. Can you tell us

where she is?’

‘Mrs Aratounian?’ the bespectacled man said dreamily,

‘his eyes drifting back to Sonali. ‘She has gone.’

‘Gone where?’ said Murugan.

‘Just gone.’ The man shrugged, losing interest in the

conversation. Suddenly a thought struck him and he turned

to Sonali, his face brightening. ‘Perhaps you will consent to

make an appearance at our Society?’ he said. ‘Is it possible,

madame?’

Sonali answered with a practised gesture that indicated

neither confirmation nor disavowal.

Murugan took hold of the man’s arm and shook it, hard.

‘Later!’ he shouted. ‘You can talk about that later. First tell

us, where’s Mrs Aratounian? And where’s her stuff—her

furniture, and plants and everything? And my stuff—my

suitcase, laptop and all the rest?’

The man flicked Murugan’s fingers off his arm with a

fastidious sniff. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘There is no need to

raise your voice.’

‘Sorry,’ said Murugan. ‘I just wanted to get a grip on

your attention before it escaped again. As I was saying:

where is everything—my things, her things?’

The man gave him a look of puzzled enquiry, spectacles

glinting. ‘Don’t you know?’ he said. ‘She sold everything.

To the New Russell Exchange. That is why I am here: I am

the head clerk in charge of collections and evaluations.’

‘But it was all here this morning,’ Murugan cried

breathlessly. ‘I mean, I stayed here last night. Everything

was here when I went out this morning. She couldn’t have

sold it all today.’

The clerk gave him a pitying smile. ‘Of course not,’ he

said. ‘Such a sale cannot be arranged in a day’ The legal

formalities alone… there is the registration of sale to

consider and the affidavits and the stamp duty.’

He thrust his clipboard in Murugan’s direction. ‘Here,

look,’ he said, pointing with his pencil. ‘This is the contract.’

Peering over his shoulder, Murugan and Urmila found

themselves looking at a carbon copy of a long typewritten

document. The letterhead said New Russell Exchange,

Auctioneers and Valuers. The margin of each page was

covered with a patchwork of legal stamps, initials and

signatures.

The clerk hummed as he flipped through the document.

He stopped at the end, with a triumphant cry. ‘Here,’ he said.

‘Do you see? The contract was signed and sealed exactly a

year ago, to the day. Mrs Aratounian sold everything on

these premises on an as-is-where-is basis, subject to the

stipulation that collection would occur exactly a year later.’

He flipped the pages back and tapped on the document

with the rubberized butt of his pencil.

‘Everything is accounted for in this list,’ he said. ‘Mrs

Aratounian personally showed me the location of every item

on that list, this morning. Everything in this flat was entered

here at the time of evaluation, just before the flat was sold.’

Urmila gave a disbelieving cry: ‘The flat was sold!’

‘Yes,’ said the clerk. ‘The new owners will be taking

possession today.’

Murugan stared at him, flabbergasted. ‘But,’ he began,

‘but my things can’t be on that list: I wasn’t even here.’

The clerk directed a glance of enquiry at Murugan. ‘Are

you attempting to establish a claim to certain articles?’ he

said. ‘I should inform you that according to this contract we

have an absolute legal right to remove everything on these

premises.’

‘I’m not attempting to claim anything,’ said Murugan. ‘I

just want to know what happened to my things.’

‘What were they?’ said the clerk. ‘Can you describe

them?’

Murugan nodded: ‘A suitcase, a laptop—that kind of

stuff.’

The clerk ran his pencil through the list, humming to

himself. ‘Here!’ he said, pointing to a line. ‘Suitcase, leather,

plus miscellaneous travel articles and imported electronic

equipment.’

Murugan fell silent, staring at the clipboard, shaking his

head in incomprehension. ‘But this is insane,’ he said. ‘I

mean—being here today wasn’t even a glimmer in my eye a

year ago.’

The clerk handed Murugan the clipboard and wandered

off in Sonali’s direction. He produced a piece of paper from

his trouser pocket and handed it to her. ‘Please, madame,’ he

said, ‘if you could just give me your autograph… just to

show the society…’

Sonali took the paper and the proffered pencil. She

scribbled her name and handed the paper back. He received

it with both hands, cupping it reverently between his palms.

‘You do not know what this means to me,’ he breathed, ‘two

famous people in one day—it is more than I could ever have

imagined.’

Murugan reappeared, thrusting himself between them. ‘I

have another question for you,’ he said. ‘Did Mrs

Aratounian leave any papers behind? Any Xeroxes, old

newspaper cuttings, anything?’

The clerk cocked his head, regarding Murugan with a

puzzled frown. ‘It is interesting that you ask,’ he said.

‘Usually when we clear out a flat there’s a lot of waste paper

lying around. But here there was nothing. No newspapers,

old books, nothing. I looked because I wanted to put these

in some paper.’ Unfurling his fist he showed them his last

remaining peanuts. ‘But I couldn’t find a single bit of paper

in the whole house. That is why for Madame’s autograph

once again I had to use the paper that Mrs Aratounian gave

me just before she left.’

‘What paper?’ said Murugan.

The clerk parted his hands slowly to reveal the slip of

paper that Sonali had just autographed.

‘When did Mrs Aratounian give you that?’ Murugan

demanded. ‘And why?’

‘She said if anyone came here to tell them…’

‘Tell them what?’

The clerk squinted at the little slip. ‘That she was going

to catch a train at eight thirty,’ he said. ‘To Renupur, from

Sealdah.’

‘What!’ cried Murugan. ‘Quick: what time is it now?’

Grabbing the clerk’s wrist, Urmila looked at his watch.

‘Seven forty-five,’ she said. ‘We might just get there in time,

if we find a taxi right away.’

She dropped the clerk’s hand and said: ‘Why didn’t you

tell us this before?’

‘I didn’t know,’ he replied, sheepishly. ‘I thought she

meant someone else.’

‘Who?’ said Murugan.

‘Phulboni,’ said the clerk.

‘Phulboni!’ Sonali cried.

‘Yes,’ said the clerk. ‘Phulboni himself. The great writer;

he was here just a short while ago. He said that someone

had gone to his house very late last night and left a note

telling him to come here. Look…’ He flipped the paper over

and pointed to another scrawled autograph.

Murugan started for the door. ‘Come on,’ he said to

Urmila. ‘Let’s move it.’

Urmila and Sonali followed him at a run, leaving the clerk

momentarily stunned. They were halfway down when he

shouted after them, hanging over the stairwell: ‘Madame…

my invitation…’ There was no answer.

At the bottom of the stairs, Urmila stopped for a moment,

to regain her breath. ‘Sonali-di,’ she said, panting. ‘Why are

you coming with us? You don’t have to come.’

Sonali burst into laughter. ‘Of course I’m coming with

you,’ she said.

‘But why?’ said Urmila. ‘You don’t know anything about

this business.’

‘There’s something you don’t know either,’ Sonali said.

‘What?’

‘That Phulboni is my father,’ said Sonali. ‘With Phulboni

and Romen gone, what will I stay for?’

A startled cry came floating down the stairwell. ‘Oh my

God!’ the clerk’s voice breathed. ‘Phulboni is your father,

madame? Oh my God’ What will they say at the Film

Society?’

They heard his footsteps pounding down the stairs and

went running out to the street.

Murugan had already stopped a taxi. ‘Quick,’ he said to

the driver. ‘Sealdah—jaldi, as quick as you can.’

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AS THE TAXI lurched around a corner, on to Park Street,

Murugan reached for Urmila’s hand and sandwiched it

between his.

‘I want you to promise me something Calcutta,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Urmila. ‘What are you talking about?’

Murugan tugged urgently at her hand. ‘Promise me,

Calcutta,’ he said. ‘Promise me that you’ll take me across if I

don’t make it on my own.’

Urmila’s eyes widened. ‘Make it where?’ she said.

‘Wherever. ’

She laughed out loud, throwing back her head: ‘I don’t

know what you’re talking about.’

‘But promise anyway,’ Murugan insisted. ‘Promise you’ll

take me, even if they want you to leave me behind?’

‘Why would anyone want to leave you behind?’ said

Urmila. ‘You’re the only one who knows what’s happened,

what’s happening. You said yourself that someone had

gone to a lot of trouble to help you make connections.’

‘That’s just the problem,’ said Murugan. ‘My part in this

was to tie some threads together so that they could hand the

whole package over in a neat little bundle some time in the

future, to whoever it is they’re waiting for.’

‘And how do you know it’s not you they’ve been waiting

for?’

‘It can’t be me,’ said Murugan flatly. ‘You see, for them

the only way to escape the tyranny of knowledge is to turn

it on itself. But for that to work they have to create a single

perfect moment of discovery when the person who

discovers is also that which is discovered. The problem with

me is that I know too much and too little.’

‘But who is it, then?’ said Urmila.

‘I wish I could tell you,’ said Murugan. ‘But I can’t. In

fact, I should be asking you that question.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Urmila.

‘You still don’t get it?’ Murugan asked her, with a rueful

half-smile.

‘No,’ said Urmila. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking

about.’

Murugan looked her in the eyes. ‘Don’t you see?’ he

said. ‘You’re the one she’s chosen.’

Urmila gasped. ‘For what?’

‘For herself.’

Suddenly, taking Urmila by surprise, Murugan fell to his

knees, squeezing himself into the narrow leg space of the

back seat. Bending low he touched his forehead to her feet.

‘Don’t forget me,’ he begged her. ‘If you have it in your

power to change the script, write me in. Don’t leave me

behind. Please.’

Urmila laughed. She put a hand on his head and an arm

around Sonali’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll take

you both with me, wherever I go.’

Then she caught a glimpse of the taxi driver, craning his

neck over the back of the seat, grinning salaciously.

‘And you keep your eyes on the road,’ she snapped.

‘This has nothing to do with you.’

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‘GUESS YOU DON’T remember me, huh?’ the Head said to

Antar. ‘Your old pal from the Thai restaurant?’

‘Murugan!’ Antar cried.

‘You said it,’ said Murugan. ‘It’s me.’

‘Is that really you?’ said Antar.

‘Sure is,’ said Murugan. ‘I’ve waited a long time to get in

touch with you. I figured nothing would be quite as quick as

that ID card.’

‘But people have been looking for you for years,’ said

Antar. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I’ve asked you this before,’ said Murugan. ‘And I’ll ask

again. Are you sure you want to know?’

‘Yes,’ said Antar.

‘OK, Ant,’ Murugan said with a laugh. ‘It’s your funeral.

All you’ve got to do to find out is pick up that gadget over

there.’

The disembodied chin wagged in the direction of Antar’ s

Simultaneous Visualization headgear.

‘You mean it’s in there?’ Antar gasped. ‘But it can’t be:

nobody has access…’

‘Guess we got in while the going was good,’ said

Murugan. ‘Anyway it’s all in there, waiting for you to hit the

button.’

Slowly and deliberately, Antar reached for the headgear,

slipped it on and clicked the visor into place, in front of his

eyes. He tapped a key and suddenly a man appeared,

walking down a wide road, beside a grey cathedral. He was

wearing khaki trousers and a green baseball cap. It was

Murugan. He stopped to look over his shoulder: dark

threatening clouds were approaching across a wide green

expanse. A minibus shot by, sending a plume of water

shooting up from a puddle. Murugan began to run.

Antar shot a quick glance at the ‘Time of Conversion’

prompt, at the bottom of the three-dimensional wraparound

image. It said 5.25 p.m. Antar gasped: that could only mean

that someone had started loading the Sim Vis system at

about the time that Ava stumbled upon Murugan’s ID card.

Now Murugan was standing in the lobby of a large

auditorium and two women were running up the stairs. They

came closer and suddenly Antar recognized Tara—except

that she was in a sari. She was talking to Maria who was

wearing a sari too.

He felt a cool soft touch upon his shoulder and his hand

flew up to take off the Sim Vis headgear. But now there was

a restraining hand upon his wrist, and a voice in his ear,

Tara’s voice, whispering: ‘Keep watching; we’re here; we’re

all with you.’

There were voices everywhere now, in his room, in his

head, in his ears, it was as though a crowd of people were in

the room with him. They were saying: ‘We’re with you;

you’re not alone; we’ll help you across.’

He sat back and sighed like he hadn’t sighed in years.

acknowledgements

I am very grateful to Raj Kumar Rajendran of the Department

of Computer Sciences, Columbia University for his advice on

certain details. I am especially indebted to Alka Mansukhani

of the Department of Microbiology, New York University

Medical Center: her ideas and support were essential to the

writing of this book.

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Table of Contents

copyright

3

contents

5

dedication

8

epigraph

9

august 20: mosquito day

10

■ ■ ■ one

11

■ ■ ■ two

18

■ ■ ■ three

24

■ ■ ■ four

33

■ ■ ■ five

37

■ ■ ■ six

41

■ ■ ■ seven

49

■ ■ ■ eight

56

■ ■ ■ nine

66

■ ■ ■ ten

82

■ ■ ■ eleven

92

■ ■ ■ twelve

106

■ ■ ■ thirteen

114

■ ■ ■ fourteen

125

■ ■ ■ fifteen

133

■ ■ ■ sixteen

142

■ ■ ■ seventeen

148

■ ■ ■ eighteen

156

■ ■ ■ nineteen

162

■ ■ ■ twenty

166

■ ■ ■ twenty-one

173

■ ■ ■ twenty-two

197

■ ■ ■ twenty-three

203

the day after

213

■ ■ ■ twenty-four

214

■ ■ ■ twenty-five

219

■ ■ ■ twenty-six

225

■ ■ ■ twenty-seven

233

■ ■ ■ twenty-eight

238

■ ■ ■ twenty-nine

243

■ ■ ■ thirty

251

■ ■ ■ thirty-one

258

■ ■ ■ thirty-two

267

■ ■ ■ thirty-three

276

■ ■ ■ thirty-four

282

■ ■ ■ thirty-five

287

■ ■ ■ thirty-six

294

■ ■ ■ thirty-seven

300

■ ■ ■ thirty-eight

318

■ ■ ■ thirty-nine

345

■ ■ ■ forty

352

■ ■ ■ forty-one

358

■ ■ ■ forty-two

363

■ ■ ■ forty-three

367

■ ■ ■ forty-four

379

■ ■ ■ forty-five

382

acknowledgements

385

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Document Outline

- copyright

- contents

- dedication

- epigraph

- august 20: mosquito day

- ■ ■ ■ one

- ■ ■ ■ two

- ■ ■ ■ three

- ■ ■ ■ four

- ■ ■ ■ five

- ■ ■ ■ six

- ■ ■ ■ seven

- ■ ■ ■ eight

- ■ ■ ■ nine

- ■ ■ ■ ten

- ■ ■ ■ eleven

- ■ ■ ■ twelve

- ■ ■ ■ thirteen

- ■ ■ ■ fourteen

- ■ ■ ■ fifteen

- ■ ■ ■ sixteen

- ■ ■ ■ seventeen

- ■ ■ ■ eighteen

- ■ ■ ■ nineteen

- ■ ■ ■ twenty

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-one

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-two

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-three

- the day after

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-four

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-five

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-six

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-seven

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-eight

- ■ ■ ■ twenty-nine

- ■ ■ ■ thirty

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-one

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-two

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-three

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-four

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-five

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-six

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-seven

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-eight

- ■ ■ ■ thirty-nine

- ■ ■ ■ forty

- ■ ■ ■ forty-one

- ■ ■ ■ forty-two

- ■ ■ ■ forty-three

- ■ ■ ■ forty-four

- ■ ■ ■ forty-five

- acknowledgements

Table of Contents

dedication

epigraph

august 20: mosquito day

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

the day after

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

thirty-two

thirty-three

thirty-four

thirty-five

thirty-six

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

thirty-nine

forty

forty-one

forty-two

forty-three

forty-four

forty-five

ack nowledgements