Her eyes flashed and she rose unsteadily to her feet.
If you let me share your trials …
Anything, Kulfi, anything, he said, rising with her.
Suddenly she stiffened and looked him full in the face.
Today I can only offer you …
He no longer cared whether anybody saw him or heard him. Kulfi, he cried, I can’t bear it. I’ll marry you, if only tonight, just once. You see, I’ve never …
I can only offer you …
Her eyes had grown huge now. She shuddered and her hands rose to her heart. He started forward in a great surge of joy. But then he caught a glimpse of Mrs Verma, watching, frowning, and he checked himself. Don’t say anything now, Kulfi, he whispered hastily, jabbing his thumb at Mrs Verma. They might hear you.
Kulfi’s moist lips fluttered. She moaned and stretched her arms towards him, imploring, beseeching.
I can only offer you Chitrangada; daughter of kings …
Not now, Kulfi, he whispered urgently. Just wait a little; till tonight. What’s the hurry?
Dhanya! Dhanya! Dhanya!
Kulfi crashed to the floor, clutching her heart. In a trance, Jyoti Das watched her go down.
The first person to run across the room was Dr Verma. He pushed Jyoti Das back, undid the top buttons of her blouse and felt for her heart.
Jyoti Das covered his eyes and tried to steady himself. When he looked up again Alu was standing opposite him. For an interminable moment they stared at each other across Kulfi’s body. Then Dr Verma rose to his feet between them.
She’s heavenly, he said in English. Absolutely heavenly.
Her fathers have gathered her to their heavenly abode.
Chapter Twenty-One. Curtain
Very gently Mrs Verma closed Kulfi’s eyes. For a moment she looked into her pale, rigid face and then her lips began to quiver and she had to tilt her head to keep her tears back. Three of us, she said, three doctors sitting right in front of her, and there was nothing we could do. Nothing.
We’re not to blame, Mrs Verma, Dr Mishra said gruffly. There was nothing we could do. Especially since her husband didn’t bother to warn us that she had a heart condition.
Mrs Verma ran a consoling hand over Alu’s back: It’s not his fault, poor man. What could he do? She was so keen to do the part. How was he to know that she would get so carried away?
She glanced reproachfully at Jyoti Das, squatting beside her on the floor. If anything, she said, perhaps Mr Das could have behaved with a little more restraint. I won’t say any more.
Jyoti Das flinched and buried his head in his knees.
Anyway, Mrs Verma continued, there’s only one thing we can do for her now, poor woman.
She went into the kitchen and returned with a brass bowl and a spoon. Kneeling beside the body, she said: Go on, Mr Bose. Even though it’s too late now, you should wet her lips.
A quickly stifled snort of laughter checked her as she held the bowl out to Alu. She looked up, startled: What’s the matter, Dr Mishra?
Sorry, he muttered contritely, slapping a hand over his mouth. The sudden movement jolted his halo back into motion. Ignoring it, he said loudly: That’s a strange thing you’re doing, Mrs Verma.
What? she said. I can’t hear you.
Sala! he swore, taking a swipe at his halo. He yelped and snatched his hand back as the whirling blade skimmed the skin off his knuckles. Sala, bhain … sorry. Verma, he roared, can’t you get this thing off my neck? Dr Verma ran to help him.
What were you saying, Mishra-sahb? Mrs Verma said.
I was just asking, he snapped, whether you’ve managed to connect your kitchen tap to the Ganges? Or do you keep your own private stock of holy water for these occasions?
What do you mean? she said puzzled.
Maybe I should explain to you, in case you don’t know, that the water in that bowl has never been anywhere near the snows of the Himalayas or the Gangotri. It’s from a million-year-old water-table that lies under the Sahara. It’s never flowed past Rudraprayag or Hardwar or Benares or any of your holy cities. In fact it’s never flowed anywhere. It’s been pumped up by an artesian well.
Mystified, Mrs Verma looked from Dr Mishra to Alu and back again. So? she said.
In a word, that’s not Ganga-jal. You can’t give it to her.
She shook her head impatiently and turned her back on him. Go on, Mr Bose, she said, prodding Alu. Give it to her.
Wait! Dr Mishra cried. You can’t do that.
But, Dr Mishra, she said, where do you think we’re going to get Ganga-jal here in the Sahara? This is all we’ve got. What’s the point of arguing?
There is a point. First, I think you should ask yourself whether you as a rational, educated woman wish to encourage anyone in the belief that a bit of dirty water from a muddy river can actually do them any good when they’re already dead.
This is hardly the time for a debate, Mrs Verma said. We can only do what we think is right. Go on, Mr Bose.
Wait a minute! Dr Mishra leapt to his feet. If you are going to do this, you have to do it properly. You can’t just pour water from an artesian well down her mouth and pretend it’s Ganga-jal. You can’t. There are certain rules.
Never mind the rules, Mrs Verma said. We’ll just do what we can.
She put the spoon into Alu’s hands and helped him slip a few drops of water through Kulfi’s dead lips.
When she saw the body Zindi sank to the floor slowly, like the crust on a loaf of cooling bread. She straightened Kulfi’s outstretched arms, and then suddenly, like a scolded child, she began to rock from side to side, sobbing. She was pointing at me, she sobbed. Did you see her? She thinks I did it.
Alu put his arms around her. Zindi, he said, whispering, so that the doctors at the other end of the room would not hear him. Zindi, it’s not your fault; there was nothing you could do.
How do you know? Zindi whispered back. Her death won’t be on your soul. You’ve done nothing but stare at your thumbs ever since we left al-Ghazira. It was I who decided everything; I who brought her to this house of death; it’s I who’ll have it hanging over me on the Day of Judgement.
By why, Zindi? She came of her own will.
But I allowed her to stay on here, even after I smelt death in this place. If I’d done what I should have and we’d left, she would have lived.
But, Zindi, Alu said, you know we couldn’t have left. Boss is ill; and anyway where would we have gone?
She elbowed him angrily away. I don’t want your hugs and your explanations, she hissed. I’ll have to live with this for every day of what’s left of my life. Leave me in peace. What can you ever understand of this?
A hand touched her shoulder and she turned. It was Jyoti Das, his eyes bloodshot and swollen, his mouth open. He was trying to say something.
It’s the vulture, she cried.
It’s my fault, he stuttered. He reached out to touch her feet.
Zindi jerked her legs back. Don’t touch me, she snarled. Keep your murdering claws away or you’ll kill me, too.
Jyoti Das stared at his hands in despair. What could I do? he said. She came in out of the desert like a mirage and I …
Take him out, Alu, Zindi sobbed. Take him away. Don’t let him get his claws into me …
She was still sobbing as they helped each other up and limped out of the room like a pair of grieving cripples.
What do we do now? said Mrs Verma.
You don’t do anything, Dr Mishra said. You have no connection with the whole business except that it happened under your roof. What you should do now is ring up the hospital and the police. They’ll come and take the body away. Then it’s out of your hands. Maybe they’ll do an autopsy; they may have to, for the death certificate.