What about Alu? Is he dead? Has the Star killed him at last?
Abu Fahl stepped into a crackling silence. The crowd in the courtyard stirred and rose; people shoved and elbowed each other, straining for a glimpse of the men. And then it was certain — the only men with Abu Fahl were those who had gone with him. No Alu.
At once Abu Fahl was struck by a thunderclap of questions. The crowd surged towards him, jostling and pushing. He stumbled, fell, picked himself up again and shouted. He shouted again, and again, but even his bull’s bellow was lost in the commotion. Then Rakesh began beating an empty kerosene-tin, and slowly the metallic clanging prevailed and the shouts died away. Rakesh upturned the kerosene-tin on the floor and pushed Abu Fahl on to it.
Abu Fahl stood precariously still on the tin for a moment, rubbing his blind eye and looking at the faces that were raised towards him. He saw Hajj Fahmy’s wife, a lean string of a woman, and he heard her rumble: So tell us, Abu Fahl, is he dead at last?
No, said Abu Fahl. He isn’t dead. He’s as alive as you or me.
A long sigh blew through the courtyard, stirring up a volley of angry questions: Then, why isn’t he here? Why didn’t you get him out?
Abu Fahl held up his hand: There was nothing we could do; there were too few of us. He’s lying under a pile of rubble, and do you know how large that pile is? It’s a mountain. Even after we managed to get down to the basement, it was a long time before we could so much as see him. He’s right at the bottom of that mountain.
But just above him was a concrete slab, almost flat on the ground. At first we thought there couldn’t possibly be any living thing under that slab.
Then we saw that the slab was inclined very slightly. At one end it was about a foot or two off the floor. In the beginning we couldn’t see what lay under it there, for there’s a tangle of webbed steel blocking it at that end. And then, when we managed to look through, we saw him there, right in front of us, lying flat on his back, with that huge slab of concrete so close to his nose he could have touched it with his eyelashes. Another hair’s breadth and he would have been a dead man.
How did it happen? Why did that block of concrete stop there, just a hair away from his nose? Do you know why? Because beside him, on either side, were two sewing machines, of the old kind, of black solid steel. They must be the only ones of their kind in al-Ghazira now, real antiques, probably kept for display. But, if it weren’t for them, our friend Alu would have been flattened days ago.
He was lying right in front of us, but there was nothing we could do. We’d have had to cut through the steel mesh, move the rubble and shift the concrete slab to get him out. That slab’s two feet thick, two feet of ground rock and sand held together by steel. It’s so strong it could hold up a shopful of cars. And the girders fallen around it are as thick as tree-trunks and a thousand times stronger. On girders like that you could hang the whole of the Ras. It would have taken dozens of men with a truckload of equipment to move them, and we were just six.
We didn’t dare move a thing: the slightest slip, and who was to know? Perhaps the whole mountain of rubble would come down on him. We had to stand there and stare at this man, hardly more than a boy, buried alive under a hill of rubble, with death barely an inch from his chest, and miraculously still alive. All we could do was marvel; all of us, we marvelled, for there was not a man amongst us who had seen a thing like that before.
I could hardly speak. I remember at last I laughed, to make the whole business seem ordinary, and though we had taken nothing with us I said to Alu, Do you need food or water? — and he said simply, No, I’m all right.
I tried to think of something else, but nothing would come to me, so I asked him, Alu, how are your boils? — and he answered, They’re gone. So then, trying to laugh again, I said: Alu, do you want to come out now, or do you still want to lie there and think about dirt and cleanliness and your Infinitely Small?
He said: Take me out of here, Abu Fahl. I have been here long enough, I have thought enough, and now I know what we must do …
Abu Fahl stopped and glanced over the courtyard. The whole crowd was staring intently up at him. He drew a deep breath.
I asked him: Alu, what must we do?
And he said: We must have a war.
Abu Fahl beat down the stifled gasps and murmurs that rose all around him: I said to him, What kind of war?
And Alu said: We shall war on money, where it all begins.
After that Abu Fahl would say no more: he waved the crowd out, telling them to go home and think about what he had said. Then he went into Zindi’s room and demanded tea from Karthamma.
Zindi set about the business of clearing the house with energetic enthusiasm. Her insults soon emptied the courtyard and the lane outside. But there was nothing she could do about her own room, which was so crowded there was barely room for the smoke. She saw from the way Hajj Fahmy was sitting, with his hands planted firmly on his crossed legs, that it was likely to remain so, for it was always he who gave the lead to the others.
In despair, she tucked Boss under her arm and went to sit on the doorstep. And there she found Forid Mian, waiting timidly in the shadows of the lane, inconspicuous in his usual starched shirt and checked green lungi. For an instant she gaped at his long parched face and his ragged beard. Then her surprise was swept away by waves of relief and hope, and all at once she was babbling strings of phrases of welcome, squeezing his twig fingers, and pushing him through the door.
Forid Mian drew back when he saw the crowd in her room, but she tightened her grip on his arm and led him in. Once he was inside, he straightened his shoulders with an effort and worked his way slowly around the room, shaking hands and whispering Salaams. Everybody was listening to Abu Fahl telling the story of his journey to the Star again, and only Hajj Fahmy held Forid Mian’s hand long enough to talk to him. You’re here after a long time, Forid, he said curiously. But, before he could answer, Zindi appeared at his elbow and led him away.
Zindi cleared a space in a corner near the stove by pushing two men aside and sat Forid Mian down. She settled Boss on her lap and lit the stove. So how are you, Forid Mian? she said softly in Hindi. It’s a long time since you drank tea with us. Hajj Fahmy is right.
Forid Mian combed his beard with his fingers. Not so long, he said. You know there’s a lot of work in the shop. And now you have Jeevanbhai staying here. I’d feel strange sitting with him in the evenings.
Zindi smelt a promising spoor and leapt: Why? Then she checked herself. No, she said gently, I only meant … There hasn’t been trouble, I hope?
No, said Forid Mian. No trouble. Not really trouble. But you know how prices are going up and what rice costs. What can a poor man do? So when I see Jeevanbhai I ask him for some more money. And he says, where will the money come from? and he looks at my accounts and he doesn’t seem happy. That happens every other day. It would be too much if it were to happen in the evenings as well.
Zindi nodded: Yes, but we’ve been missing you. We all wonder where Forid Mian is. Tell me, Forid Mian, how many years is it since you’ve been working in al-Ghazira?
Forid Mian sighed and counted on his fingers. Must be fifteen, he said. Fifteen years!
Fifteen years! Zindi clicked her tongue. That’s a long time. Chittagong in Bangladesh, wasn’t it?
Forid Mian stared into space. Yes, he said, Chittagong, Chatgan, where the Karnophuli pours into the sea, almost Burma …
Hah! Zindi squeezed his bony thigh. So, Forid Mian, tell me, how many wives and how many children have you got hidden away in your Chatgan by the Karnophuli?