The Calcutta Chromosome

'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 Hopkins 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 lemonscented 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 bow1. 'I'll turn a few pages for you; but remember, it was you who asked. It's your funeral.'

Chapter 10

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.