Free In an Antique Land by Amitav Ghosh Page A

in an uproar. His father had beenwaiting for me, and after a hurried exchange of greetings, he spirited me past the crowd in his guest-room and led me quickly to a walled courtyard at the back, next to the pen where the livestock was kept—the most secret, secluded part of the house, the zariba. Their acquisition was standing in the middle of the courtyard, like a newborn calf, with an old shoe hanging around it to fend off the Evil Eye.
    It was a brand-new diesel water-pump, the first of its kind to come to Lataifa. There were several such pumps in the surrounding villages: they were known generically as ‘al-makana al-Hindi’, the Indian machine, for they were all manufactured in India.
    Mabrouk, his father, his mother and several cousins and uncles, were standing around me now, in a circle, looking from me to the machine, bright-eyed and expectant.
    â€˜Makana hindi!’ I said to Mabrouk’s father, with a show of enthusiasm. ‘Congratulations—you’ve bought an “Indian machine”!’
    Mabrouk’s father’s eyes went misty with pride as he gazed upon the machine. ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, that’s why we asked you to come. You must take a look at it and tell us what you think.’
    â€˜Me?’ I said. I was aghast; I knew nothing at all about water-pumps; indeed, I could not recall ever having noticed one before coming to Lataifa.
    â€˜Yes!’ Mabrouk’s father clapped me on the back. ‘It’s from your country, isn’t it? I told the dealer in Damanhour, I said, “Make sure you give me one that works well, we have an Indian living in our hamlet and he’ll be able to tell whether we’ve got a good one or not.’ ”
    I hesitated, mumbling a few words of protest, but he nudged me eagerly forward. A quick look at the anxious, watchful facesaround me told me that escape was impossible: I would have to pronounce an opinion, whether I liked it or not.
    A hush fell upon the courtyard as I walked up to the machine; a dozen heads craned forward, watching my every move. I went up to the machine’s spout, stooped beside it and peered knowledgeably into its inky interior, shutting one eye. Standing up again, I walked around the pump amidst a deathly silence, nodding to myself, occasionally tapping parts of it with my knuckles. Then, placing both hands on the diesel motor, I fell to my knees and shut my eyes. When I looked up again Mabrouk’s father was standing above me, anxiously awaiting the outcome of my silent communion with this product of my native soil.
    Reaching for his hand I gave it a vigorous shake. ‘It’s a very good makana Hindi,’ I said, patting the pump’s diesel tank. ‘Excellent! ‘Azeem! It’s an excellent machine.’
    At once a joyful hubbub broke out in the courtyard. Mabrouk’s father pumped my hand and slapped me on the back. ‘Tea,’ he called out to his wife. ‘Get the doktór al-Hindi some tea.’
    Next day Jabir came to visit me in my room, late in the evening. He seemed somehow subdued, much quieter and less cocky than usual.
    â€˜I was talking to Mabrouk,’ he said, ‘I heard he took you to his house to see their new “Indian machine”.’
    I shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He did.’
    â€˜And what was your opinion?’ he asked.
    â€˜They’ve bought a good machine,’ I said. ‘A very good one.’
    Jabir sank into silence, nodding thoughtfully. Later, when he rose to leave, he stopped at the door and declared: ‘My father and my uncles are thinking of buying an Indian machine too, insha’allah.’
    â€˜Good,’ I said.
    â€˜I hope you’ll come with us,’ he said.
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜When we go to Damanhour to buy it,’ he said, shyly. ‘We would profit from your opinion.’
    I stayed up a long time that night, marvelling at the