Dr Mishra burst into laughter. Poor Mrs Bose, he said chuckling. She didn’t do anything right. Didn’t she know that she ought to have made a gift of a cow to a Brahmin before dying? It would have been so easy, too. All she had to do was call out for me; I’ve always wanted a cow. And now she’ll have to answer for it, poor thing. She’ll be stuck on the banks of the Vaitarani, with no cow to lead her across it into the underworld.
Mishra-sahb, Mrs Verma said, do you think this is the right time for your jokes?
If you think I’m joking, he said evenly, why don’t you go and take a look at the Smritis yourself? The trouble is you can’t, of course, because you don’t know any Sanskrit.
Tell me, Mrs Verma said curiously, where did you learn?
From my grandfather, he said. What do you think I was doing all those years when my father was away in England? My grandfather was a real old Kanyakubja pandit; he used to give me vivas till the day he died. But, to come back to the point, there’s another reason why you can’t give Mrs Bose a proper cremation: I think you could see quite as well as I could that she was within hours of adultery. It can’t have been the first time, either. You ought to see what your law-giver Manu has to say about giving funerals to adultresses and fallen women.
Gazing at him in wonder, Mrs Verma said: Do you really believe in all this, Mishra-sahb?
All what?
Manu and the Smritis and everything?
Of course I don’t believe it. You know that quite well — I don’t believe a word of it. Dr Mishra stabbed a finger at her: But you appear to believe it, so you ought to know what your beliefs imply. I think it’s time someone showed you, Mrs Verma, that ignorance is a poor foundation for belief.
You shouldn’t have bothered. I know quite well how ignorant I am.
That’s not the point. I think you’re old enough to learn that you can’t just do what you like on impulse. There are certain rules.
Rules, rules, she said softly. All you ever talk about is rules. That’s how you and your kind have destroyed everything — science, religion, socialism — with your rules and your orthodoxies. That’s the difference between us: you worry about rules and I worry about being human.
Alu had little interest in Jyoti Das’s visions of birds. Never mind all that, he said. Tell me what became of the others.
The others?
Hajj Fahmy, Professor Samuel, Chunni, Rakesh and all the rest. What happened after you ambushed us at the Star?
Jyoti Das had to think hard to put a face to every name.
They were questioned, he said shamefacedly, mainly about you and Zindi at-Tiffaha and all the rest of you who got away. I wasn’t there then; they wouldn’t let me stay. I only saw them the next day. They were taken straight to the airport next morning to be deported — sent back to India or Egypt or wherever they had come from. I only saw them from a distance. They had plainclothesmen all around them, and no one was allowed to go close. Many of them looked as though they were in a bad way. Only Professor Samuel seemed calm. He even seemed to be trying to quieten some of the others. When they were being taken out of the lounge to the plane, he turned and saw me. I think he recognized me — I don’t know. But, whatever it was, he stopped and shouted: This is not the end, only the beginning. Why? I shouted back. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The plainclothesmen were pushing him then, but he managed to hold them off for a moment. He smiled at me and shouted, even louder: How many people will you send away? The queue of hopes stretches long past infinity.
It was some time before Alu spoke again. He said: And what will happen to them now?
I don’t know, said Jyoti Das. They might be tried or they might be allowed to go straight home. Anyway, nothing serious will happen to them — no one worries too much about things which happen far away. And it’s you they wanted — not them.
And what happened to Hajj Fahmy?
He died the same day, Jyoti Das said. Of shock, the Ghaziris claimed.
A little later he added: When they took Hajj Fahmy’s body home the next day, they found that his family already knew. They were waiting, dressed in mourning. His widow said that her son Isma’il had told them the moment it happened.
So what will you do now, Mrs Verma? Dr Mishra asked. Will you clean the body for the cremation? Do you know how to do it?
After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs Verma nodded. She said: It shouldn’t be too difficult for a doctor.
But you’ve always had nurses to stand between you and any real pain, Mrs Verma. Not that a corpse feels pain, of course. But what have you ever done to a corpse other than cut it up anyway? No corpse has ever presented you with anything which wasn’t in Gray’s Anatomy. This is a little different, isn’t it?
I’ll manage, said Mrs Verma.
It’s not quite as easy as you think, Dr Mishra said with relish. You’ll have to reach into the bowels and clean out all the dead faeces. You’ll have to scrape the insides of the rectum and the anus to make sure that they’re absolutely clean; that not the faintest trace of mortal shit remains to defile the sacred fire. Are you sure a well-brought-up woman like you will be able to do it, Mrs Verma? I’m not.
Mrs Verma cast a quick, uncertain glance at the corpse and wiped her forehead with the fall of her sari. I don’t know, she said.
You see, said Dr Mishra, it’s not as easy as you think.
Then Zindi rose to her feet and plodded slowly to Mrs Verma’s chair. She put her hand on her shoulder and glowered across the table at Dr Mishra. Don’t worry, she said, her tongue tripping indignantly over the Hindi syllables. I’ll help you. We’ll do it together. I’ve often done it: we clean out the bodies of our dead, too.
Dr Mishra lowered his head, momentarily embarrassed. Wonderful, he said, under his breath. Now we can have an international feast of love over our adulterous corpse.
Mrs Verma stood up and took Zindi’s arm. Come on, she said, we’d better start now.
Not so soon, Mrs Verma, Dr Mishra called out. You can’t do anything to the corpse yet. You have to contact the authorities first. They may want an autopsy.
Mrs Verma stopped abruptly. That’s right, Dr Mishra smiled. In the meanwhile all you can do is lay the body out properly. I don’t suppose you know how to do that, either, Mrs Verma? Well, let me tell you. First, you have to find a clean place on the floor somewhere and you have to purify it with Ganga-jal. If I remember correctly, you’re meant to cover it with cow dung, too. But since you’re not going to find much cow dung on the sand-dunes, I suppose you could always use camel dung instead and do a few penances when you get back. However, personally I feel compelled to advise you strongly to leave that step out altogether. After that you have to lay the body out straight, with the head pointing south and the feet north.
Mrs Verma dusted her hands briskly. We can lay her out on the veranda, she said to Zindi. That’ll be the best place. But first we have to clean it out properly.
They went into a bathroom and came back carrying buckets and mugs. When the first few mugfuls had splashed over the veranda Dr Mishra began to sniff the air suspiciously. Then, throwing back his head, he burst into laughter. Mrs Verma, he gasped, tell me, is that carbolic acid in those buckets?