When Natwarlal saw Panditji, he didn’t wait for the pandit to climb the stairs. ‘Mr Pestonjee is not in,’ he called although Pestonjee could be seen walking into Thompson’s room. Natwarlal had standing instructions. Saved me the climb, Panditji thought on his way down, although he would have appreciated a drink of water and a minute to rest. Yet, this rationalization was not all fiction. The climb could have been disorienting. Panditji’s nightmares had penetrated his real world. They woke him in the middle of the night. Wide awake he would hear a bell ringing, a ringing reminding him of his earlier days when he was a teacher, not a preacher. He would pinch himself. The ringing wouldn’t stop. A few hours later, his eyes would close again and he would be delivered once more to his nightmares.

It’s three in the afternoon. The school is still in session. The bell rings. Panditji rushes to the door. ‘No one leaves before four,’ he shouts. The students stand still. There, among them, is Eklavya. ‘Did you ring the bell?’ he asks.

‘No,’ Eklavya replies.

‘Show me your hand. Let me see you lie now.’ Panditji holds a thin bamboo cane, its end is sharp, musical, psssh! Eklavya presents his palm. His right thumb is missing. ‘Where’s your thumb?’ he asks.

‘I don’t have it.’

‘Is it ringing the bell?’ he screams at Eklavya.

‘It is,’ Eklavya responds.

‘It is you then! Now give me your left thumb,’ Panditji says, brandishing a knife. Before he gets to Eklavya’s thumb, it detaches itself from his palm. It grows. It is the size of his fist. Panditji’s knife falls from his hand. He tries to grab Eklavya’s bleeding thumb with both hands. But it is too big for his hands. The bell continues ringing. Panditji is sweating. He turns towards the door. The thumb follows. He runs into another classroom. The thumb is behind him. He runs out into the corridor and down the stairs. The thumb is now as big as he is. He’s in the courtyard. It begins to rain and then thunder. Hailstones hit his head. They are not hailstones. They are thumbs. Thousands of dismembered thumbs raining down. Eklavya’s thumb has taken on colossal proportions. It is pushing him down into the ground. The ground splits wide beneath his feet.

Panditji would wake up in a cold sweat. The ringing stopped when he ate. Now, he ate through his waking hours. Within a year his stomach resembled that of Ganesha’s, round and potent.

20

Young was in Thompson’s office presenting the preliminary results of the survey.

‘Why aren’t there any clove-eaters in Mahim?’ Thompson asked.

‘I had that same question in my mind.’

‘Must be a mistake.’