I don’t want your book, he said in a rush, holding it out to her. The Life of Pasteur …
Oh, she said, pushing it back, that’s a problem. I don’t want it, either. What do we do with it now?
I don’t know, Alu said.
She took the book from him and turned it over in her hands. Then she gave it back to him.
Maybe we could give it a funeral, too? she said.
She left him staring at it in silence. After a long while he raised it high in both his hands and placed it reverently on the pyre.
Dr Mishra decided to play his last card soon after his wife and Miss Krishnaswamy had arrived in Mrs Verma’s house to help with the arrangements for the cremation.
All right, Mrs Verma, he said. You’ve managed all right till now. But there’s one thing you seem to have forgotten.
She sensed the elation simmering beneath his smooth tone and was on her guard at once. What thing?
The ghee, he said. What about the ghee?
Mrs Verma stared at him blankly: The ghee?
Yes, the ghee. You have to have ghee for a cremation. You have to pour it over the wood so that it catches fire. You can’t very well use kerosene, you know.
Frowning with concentration, Mrs Verma whispered: If only I had some butter, it would be so easy to make ghee. But we finished all our butter last week.
Then, eagerly, she cried: But what about that nice soya-bean oil I bought in Algiers?
Soya-bean oil? Dr Mishra said faintly.
It was very expensive.
Mrs Verma, he said, you’re cremating her, not pickling her.
Mrs Verma’s head sank on to her hands: Where can I get ghee now?
So that’s that, then, Dr Mishra said, rising jubilantly to his feet. We can call it off now. I’ll go and tell Mr Bose.
Wait! Mrs Verma reached out for Mrs Mishra’s hand. Manda … Mandodari-bahen, she appealed, don’t you have any butter?
Like a frightened bird, Mrs Mishra cocked her head at her husband. Mrs Verma brushed her hand angrily across her swimming eyes. For God’s sake, Mandodari, she said, surely you won’t let him tell you what to do in a situation like this? Can’t you see how important it is?
Mrs Mishra swallowed and then, with another frightened glance at her frowning husband, she said: Yes, I can give you two kilograms of butter. I stored them away last month.
Mrs Verma clasped her hand between her own and kissed her on her greying hair. So Mishra-sahb, she said. What do you have to say now?
So you’re really going ahead with this? he said. You’re going to broil her on rotten wood and baste her with rancid butter? It’s shameful. It’s a travesty. Can’t you see that?
The times are like that, Mrs Verma said sadly. Nothing’s whole any more. If we wait for everything to be right again, we’ll wait for ever while the world falls apart. The only hope is to make do with what we’ve got.
There’s only one small thing left now, Mrs Verma told Alu. And that is you have to bathe and shave your head. I’ll heat some water for you if you like. And I’ve told my husband to shave your head. He has an old razor; he can do it easily. Of course Miss K. could probably do it much better, but I thought you would prefer—
But, said Alu, why do I have to do all this?
Of course you have to; you’re her husband. You have to perform the last rites — the kapalakriya, lighting the pyre and all that. Who can do it but you? Your son’s hardly the right age. And to do it you have to shave your head.
I can’t do it, he said, a sudden fear knotting his stomach. I won’t be able to.
You have to, Mrs Verma said firmly. Even Dr Mishra says so. It’s not really very much, Mr Bose; having your head shaved isn’t at all painful, you know.
No, no, he said. You don’t understand. Of course I’ll shave my head. But I can’t light the pyre. I simply can’t.
Why not? said Mrs Verma.
It’s because … The words seared his throat like a gush of bile: It’s because of my hands, my thumbs.
Is something wrong with your thumbs?
Alu caught his breath, shut his eyes and thrust his hands in front of her. Look, he said.
Yes? said Mrs Verma mildly. What’s the matter?
Look, he repeated. I can’t do it. I can’t move my thumbs.
She laughed: But you just did.
He opened his eyes and stared blankly at his hands.
There’s a little muscular atrophy, Mrs Verma said, but nothing serious. Look, you’ve already chopped all that wood. Your thumbs are all right, Mr Bose. Really. You can do whatever you like as long as you want to.
Zindi hardly recognized Alu when she first saw him with his head shaven. He was changed, diminished. It was as though the clouds had lifted from some perpetually misted mountain; without his hair his head looked plain, ordinary, even smooth.
You’re another man today, she said. I’ve never seen you before.
But he was thinking of something else. I’m afraid, Zindi, he said, kneading his hands. I have to light the fire, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to do it.
They left just before dawn when the dunes were glowing with the first amber streaks of the eastern sky. Zindi stood in the veranda with Boss in her arms and watched them drive away. Though Miss Krishnaswamy and Mrs Mishra had stayed behind and only five of them had gone, they had still had to take two land-rovers, because of the wood.
When she couldn’t hear the land-rover any more Zindi went back to her room and began throwing her things into her small suitcase. Hours and hours seemed to pass before she heard them driving back. She snapped her suitcase shut and hurried out to the veranda.
The moment she saw Alu jump out of the land-rover and walk towards her she knew it had gone well. She didn’t need to ask; she could see it in his step.
It was he who said: I did it, Zindi. Then he held up a sealed brass box.
What is it?
It’s a bit of her ashes.
Zindi backed away hastily. Don’t bring it close to me, she said. We don’t believe in cheating the Day of Judgement by burning our bodies like that. You can keep it for yourself. What are you going to do with it?
Alu turned the box around slowly, looking at its aged joins. He said: Mrs Verma gave it to me to take back. She said it would give me a good reason to go home.
Dr Mishra adjusted his spectacles, explored his pockets, shuffled his feet and, because he had still found nothing to say, he coughed.
Mrs Verma studied her watch. It’s very late, she said, looking meaningfully at her husband. She was thinking of everything she had to get done before they left for the hospital. But Dr Mishra was still standing in front of her, wriggling a little, as though he had something to say but didn’t know how.
Everything went off very well, she said brightly, to help him. Don’t you think so, Dr Mishra? Now we can just forget about it.
He kicked a pebble and followed its trajectory intently till it vanished into a bougainvillaea bush.
Mrs Verma raised her voice: I wonder what the time is?
Well, Verma, Dr Mishra said at last, still looking at the bougainvillaea bush. It looks as though your Chitrangada is not going to get very far now.
No, Mrs Verma said, prompting her husband. That’s all finished with now. We can just have what we had last year.
But this year is not last year, is it, Verma?
What do you mean, Dr Mishra? she said. Her husband stared sadly at a cactus.
Dr Mishra turned to her: This year you’ll have to make the speech.
Why me?
Dr Mishra tried to smile, but instead his mouth twisted awkwardly sideways. Because you’ve won, Mrs Verma, he said. You’ve beaten old Murali Charan Mishra at last.