Scenes from Early Life. Philip Hensher

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СКАЧАТЬ problem?’ Altaf said. ‘Something is worrying you.’

      ‘It seems very silly,’ Amit said apologetically. ‘But I don’t know where I am going to live.’

      ‘Why can’t you take over the lease of the flat where you are living? Is it too expensive?’

      ‘No, not at all,’ Amit said. ‘The landlord is really very reasonable. The rent is a good one, all things considered, and I think I could pay it. Unfortunately, my aunt never really got round to telling him that I was living there and paying rent for the spare room. So he never knew that anyone else was in the flat. How could he, if you think about it? I went to him, and explained the situation to him, and asked if he could consider me as the tenant after my aunt gave notice. I set out how very reasonable it would be for him – he would not have to struggle to find a new tenant, he would not have to ask people, or take anyone on trust. He would have the same tenant he had had for the last three years. I put it to him like that.’

      ‘And what did he say?’

      Amit looked up at the sky; he looked down at the road. A cart loaded with old books, pulled by a bent man crying out, ‘Mind, mind,’ separated the pair of them for a moment. When they came together again, Amit had failed to produce any kind of positive interpretation to put on his landlord’s reply.

      ‘I am sorry to say he told me to be out of the flat with the rest of my aunt’s rubbish,’ Amit said. ‘Those were his words.’

      ‘He can’t do that,’ Altaf said.

      ‘He can do what he likes with his flat,’ Amit said. ‘I don’t know where I am to live. I think I will have to go back to Chittagong.’

      ‘No, no,’ Altaf said. He looked at Amit. To his surprise, there were tears in his friend’s eyes. No one, after all, likes to be removed from their house at a time not of their choosing. ‘I know exactly who to speak to.’

      4.

      For eighteen years, Altaf and his family had lived in Dacca, and all his brothers, except two, had been born there. But his family had not always lived in Dacca. His mother and father had married in another part of Bengal, but one which was now part of India. They had made the decision, in 1947, to leave the settlement fifty miles outside Calcutta and go to the new country of Pakistan. They went to the eastern division, where the largest city in the region was Dacca. Not all of their relations had done the same thing. Altaf still had cousins who lived in Calcutta, who had not been killed in the mob violence and rioting. They owned a tailor’s shop around the corner from the American consulate, in a very respectable part of the city, or so Altaf believed.

      Altaf had been ten. He remembered bundling under the seat in the train, that one time, clutching his six-year-old brother and holding his mouth shut. His mother and father remained in their seats, holding the baby his mother had not known how to surrender; she made little gulps and gasps as the train juddered to a halt. Who had stopped the train? Everyone knew what happened to the passengers in trains bound for Pakistan, in 1947: the trains were stopped by murderous gangs, and the gangs killed all those inside. That was why his mother had pushed him and his brother underneath the seats. The gang that had stopped this train might murder his mother and father, but they would not think to look under the seats, and Altaf and his brother, alone, could make a new life in Pakistan. She had not known how to surrender the baby she held. Altaf’s blood ran cold to think of the sacrifice she would have made, and at the thought that it would not have worked. The Hindu gangs knew how to look under a train seat.

      It had not been a Hindu gang of murderers, but a party of soldiers. They had actually stopped and boarded the train to protect the passengers from gangs further up the line. That terrible journey had finally come to an end, the five of them in a strange city with no possessions but alive. Much later, Altaf had realized that many people had not made the journey in the same way they had. He wondered what had happened to most of the boys he had known at the madrasa and the mosque in the small town outside Calcutta. They had been planning to leave with their families as well, and to make the journey to the new country. Some had arrived; some had stayed. But there were also some who had been killed, as everyone knew, and others whose end had not been discovered.

      Altaf’s father had made his way in Dacca: he was a small bookseller for college students. He spoke of himself as a Paragraph-wallah; most of his business was selling volumes of Paragraphs, small essays in the English language that every schoolchild had to write sooner or later. It was a good, steady business, down in Old Dacca, not far from the ferry terminal, a back-street business where no schoolmaster would find his way. When the wind blew in the wrong direction, the stink from the nearby tanneries made the atmosphere for learning in the back-street unendurable. Generations of schoolboys went there, and turned in the same Paragraphs, year after year, with the same mistakes. The family business gave Altaf a respect for Amit’s profession; it also gave him some sense of connection with the sort of people who read and thought.

      Among those who had, like Altaf and his family, reached Dacca alive was the son of the most important landowner in the village. He had sacrificed a great deal. He had been a lawyer in Calcutta, whose name was Mr Khandekar. Because of the position his father held in Murshidabad, Altaf’s family were accustomed to approach Mr Khandekar on any question of law or of business. He had always helped them, and always would.

      It was interesting and strange to Altaf that Amit did not have such a person in his life. He seemed entirely vulnerable and friendless. The only lawyers he seemed to know, or know of, were the broken-down ones who sat by the courthouse with ancient typewriters balanced on planks on their knees, saying, ‘Affidavit, sir?’ to anyone who passed by. Altaf’s heart went out to him: he decided that he would take charge of Amit’s problem. He was sure that the landlord could not, in fact, evict Amit from the flat he had lived in for three years without any problem, and that Mr Khandekar would bring about a happy conclusion. His only concern was whether Amit, as he said, could really afford the rent of the whole flat. It was possible that Amit would make this claim to Altaf, without it being true, to save face. If the flat were awarded to him, Amit might himself need to take in a lodger.

      5.

      Mr Khandekar lived in a wealthy part of Dacca, where Amit and Altaf had rarely, if ever, been. They had planned to get there early in the morning, so as not to intrude on Mr Khandekar’s day, and so that it would be more likely that he would be at home. Altaf, in explaining about Mr Khandekar to Amit, had stressed how important and busy he was in his law practice. Perhaps he had overdone it. The night before, Amit had interrupted Altaf’s explanation: ‘Let’s not bother him. I’m sure I will be perfectly all right. There are plenty of places to live. I don’t think I have a leg to stand on.’ But Altaf explained that Mr Khandekar would be very helpful, so long as they arrived at his house early enough and did not interrupt his working day. He was the most important person Altaf knew.

      But they were not very familiar with Dhanmondi, where Mr Khandekar lived. They got off the bus on Mirpur Road, which circled the district, and it pulled away. The servants, drivers and other unimportant people who had got off the bus at the same time scattered swiftly in every direction. Altaf had been to Mr Khandekar’s house before, and had thought he would be able to find it easily. But in fact they had got off the bus half a mile too soon, in their nervousness. It took half an hour of doubling backwards and forwards to discover the direction in which the wide, leafy avenues were numbered, and an hour beyond that to find road number twenty. That was the road in which Mr Khandekar’s house lay. In this district, there were few people about, and none to ask for directions. In Altaf’s part of Dacca, a request for help would pull a small crowd, eager to explain that the goal of the journey was beyond the mosque, down the small road behind Suleiman’s hardware store and so on. Here, the only people to ask were scurrying ayahs or servants, late for their tasks, slipping behind high white walls. From time СКАЧАТЬ