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.'
Chapter 16
'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 Laakhan 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.