The Scent of God

by Saikat Majumdar

  They walked through the darkness. Distant light fell on the yellow hostel buildings to their right, their manicured gardens shaped like different letters of the alphabet.

  ‘They could never leave it,’ SrK’s voice softened. ‘And so it has been for thirty years. The football ground, the gymnasium, cadet training and the prayer hall. The sweat of the boys and the saffron robes.’

  ‘But you are here too.’ A bright spark caught Anirvan’s voice as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, I stayed on as a teacher,’ SrK said. ‘The boys love us.’

  ‘But,’ he turned to Anirvan with a smile. ‘I don’t like the smell of incense.’

  That was easy to tell. He smelled of cigarettes.

  ‘Tell me,’ suddenly he turned to Anirvan. ‘Why do you like it when they turn off the lights after prayer?’

  ‘It feels so beautiful and quiet,’ Anirvan said eagerly. ‘Like the world is covered in silence.’

  ‘And what’s so great about silence?’ Smiling, SrK looked at him. ‘A debater loves the chatter of words!’

  But he does. SrK had sensed something in him. Something he couldn’t name himself. But he was right. Words have power. They can kill. Maybe someday he would be an orator. Or a writer of fiery pamphlets. Something crazy and powerful. Would he? Perhaps, maybe. The annual debating competition was coming closer. They were getting ready. They would go and rehearse in Conscience Hall, the hostel where the boys of Class 9 lived.

  Yogi didn’t feel like talking.

  Rajeev Lochan Sen, singer and debater, joined them as they approached Conscience Hall. Walking through the fragrant darkness of the ashram, Rajeev became his usual flowing self, singing an old Hindi song. He had a beautiful voice, a bit melodramatic at times, but beautiful. He liked to touch people while singing, gesturing them to join in the song. Anirvan smiled clumsily as he had no music in him, none at all. But he listened.

  This was an unusual evening, given away entirely to debate practice. Anirvan was happy; Kajol, too, was here today. Kajol didn’t care much for debates and extracurriculars but Anirvan had made him come. Kajol did not like to budge from his habits of spending time, most of which revolved around his studies. Sometimes Anirvan pulled and pushed him in different directions, keen to see how far he would stretch for him. Kajol came sometime, always whining about it.

  Sushant Kane had a strange way of training them. Suddenly he was like his brothers on the sports field. His dead face watched the boys spew memorized lines. His mouth winced and shrieked, ‘Hold it!’ To proceed to take apart the last sentence spewed, toss and turn the verb around, repeat the sentence in such a way so as to twist its nature crooked. Most of the time he stared at the ceiling. The senior boys also found him strange. Most of the time he was laughable but suddenly he had spiky, poisonous edges.

  They did not take words seriously enough. They did not pause over them long enough. They did not think or wonder. A few boys poured out speeches their parents had written for them, in a kind of electric manner acquired over home-made dishes during the visiting hours. They were ridged with Sanskrit and listening to them one felt the British were still ruling India and everybody was throbbing with virtuous anger. Anirvan’s parents knew nothing of his debating activities. But he also loved big words and piled them high in his speech—because he could! He rushed through them like a sprinter tackling rocky, mountainous terrain, flying but never faltering. Sushant Kane tripped him up. He threw many of the rocks and cliffs away and tried to make him walk on level ground. It made Yogi unhappy. SrK didn’t think he could manage the difficult words.

  Anirvan had to make him understand.

  ‘A speech is simply a conversation with many people at the same time,’ SrK said. ‘A conversation where you are the only one talking.’ He looked around the room. ‘But a conversation.’

  He looked at the debaters who were actually anti-British rebels simmering in anger. ‘And a speech is not war either. Relax.’

  ‘You know the saying—the candied knife. Smile sweetly and stab,’ his face was expressionless as he spoke. ‘Look like the Buddha while silently pulling their arteries apart.’

  Words were Anirvan’s friends. He had a way with them. SrK always said. He had such a way of saying it, it gave Anirvan gooseflesh every time he did. He wanted Anirvan to go with it. Where did he want him to go? Anirvan groped and tried to reach for it but couldn’t. And SrK wouldn’t tell him.

  For SrK, words were supernatural.

  The boys with home-cooked speeches didn’t know what to say. Their breath still smelled of mom-made chicken kosha.

  ‘But it’s…it’s…’ a boy of class eight stammered. ‘It’s about s…saving the nation.’

  ‘And why’s it about saving the nation?’ Sushant Kane frowned, looking impatient for the first time. ‘Why isn’t it about a bat flying against the moon at night?’

  A chill ran through their bodies. Everybody stared at him. There he was, with his bats and goats and lightning and lamp-posts.

  ‘But, Sushant-da,’ Shome said. ‘The subject is whether studies are nirvana for students. Or they should break the walls of the classroom and work for the poor nation.’

  The theme was a perverse rephrasing of a statement by an anti-British nationalist who became a friend of Hitler, who had asked young people for their blood so that he could give them freedom. It was the kind of theme, they knew, that made Sushant Kane lose his cool.

  The monks chose the themes of the annual debates. They usually went well with the breathless rocky terrain style sprinting and naturally demanded large, musical words.

  ‘Does that mean you have to make a speech about it?’ Sushant Kane frowned. ‘Why can’t you have a chat?’

  The senior boys stared at one another. Here we go again!

  Sushant Kane had a reputation. He cheapened serious things. He was allergic to the smooth glow of saffron.

  Rajeev was about to say something when they heard the noise outside. Like the muffled sound of a bomb. And then there was another, and the noise of a table crashing.

  ‘Premen Swami,’ one of the senior boys murmured, his face pale as death. Love Swami, the Love Lord.

  They stepped out of the common room but stood frozen at the door. It was Niroj Bora, the reckless boy from Guwahati who always hurried into trouble, full of revenge against rules. He was a big, muscular boy but the giant figure of Premen Swami tossed him around like a dry twig in a storm. He pulled him by his hair and hit him in a blinding flurry of flying saffron robes and the bomb went off again; Bora shot to the other end of the hallway. The Love Lord sped after him, a miraculous 100+ kg mass of saffron and a pale, shaved head, lifted up the crumpled boy and banged his fist on him again—back, shoulders, cheeks; it came like rain. The carrom board perched at the end of the hallway had crashed and the wooden pillars that had held it up lay scattered on the floor.

  The Love Lord breathed like a massive mute animal as he threw Bora around. It was a phlegmatic groan, as if he had a lung disease. Parts of his monastic robe had darkened with sweat. His face, beaded with perspiration, was strangely blank, as if his hands were wreaking the violence on their own and he had nothing to do with it. Bora was a tough nut to crack. He did not utter a word or say sorry, and nobody could imagine him cry. He grimaced, dodging a blow or two, but he knew better than to try to defend himself. Blocking a blow would unleash a whole new river of fury. Nobody wanted to see it. Bora’s head might be smashed against the wall, bloodying the plaster with a giant red stain.

  Nobody said a word. It was a private chat between The Love Lord and Bora. A wordless chat where each understood the other. The Love Lord was notorious for his spells of violence, but he always chose the same kind—the toughest and the most dangerous kind of boy, those with bones and nerves hard enough to take the killer spasm of blows. Usually they were the ones who kicked Mission rules out of their way. What was it this time?

  Sushant Kane stood with a grimace on his face.

  ‘The ping-pong tournament
,’ someone whispered.

  ‘What about the ping-pong tournament?’ Rajeev asked.

  ‘The ping-pong tournament,’ the senior boy whispered breathlessly, eyes rapt in terror.

  The Love Lord pulled Bora by his collar. The thin cotton shirt ripped apart, baring Bora’s dark brown skin. The monk’s splayed palm exploded on the flesh. It made a sharper, naked kind of a bang. Had he been pale-skinned it would have left red hand prints on his back, but Bora was tough and brown, his skin the colour of the muddied football fields during the monsoon. The raging monk tore the collar apart and Bora’s strong neck flew out proudly. Suddenly, the Love Lord tasted blood; his blows now brought the sharp, stinging noise of flesh on flesh. His palms, they knew, were soft and pale and doughy; to boys who knew, its power was a shock. Bora’s shirt buttons popped out in fury and were flung all over the hallway. Half-naked, he stared defiantly at the glassy-eyed monk. A sharp slap sent him flying to the other end of the balcony and his face crashed against the steel mullions that looked out to the lawns.

  The monk beckoned Bora with his ring-studded fingers. Bora collected his crumpled self and stood up, still unbroken.

  The Swami held out a key.

  ‘Go to my room,’ he stared at the boy with lifeless eyes. ‘And bring my rod.’

  Anirvan stepped back into the common room. He didn’t want to see the next scene. Never.

  The thud they heard a few minutes later chilled their spines. It was as if a heavy blanket had muffled the violence and it couldn’t breathe. Like iron fillings drawn to a magnet, they crowded the door again.

  Bora stood holding the mullions on the balcony facing the lawn. He was shirtless.

  The Love Lord struck him with the cane. Bora shook as if electrocuted.

  And then he screamed.

  The cane lashed at his legs. Would the Love Lord break his knees?

  Bora cried, a wet and terrifying moan.

  ‘Premen,’ a voice thundered from the end of the corridor.

  Kamal Swami stood there, a looming saffron tower.

  The Love Lord froze.

  He wiped his face on his sleeves, looked at Bora like he wanted to spit on him. Then he stormed away.

  The Lotus walked up to Bora. He picked up his t-shirt from the floor.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Put it on.’

  Bora burst into tears. Suddenly, everything shattered inside Anirvan. The massive brute animal.

  The Lotus ruffled his hair playfully.

  ‘What have you done now?’ He asked, smiling.

  ‘We rigged the tournament,’ Bora burst out between his tears. ‘It was supposed to be a lottery. I’ll never do it again. Never.’ He sobbed. ‘I promise.’

  Gently, Kamal Swami caressed his back. Bora screamed. His back was on fire.

  The Lotus stepped away.

  ‘Go and say “sorry” to Premen,’ he said softly. ‘You know he loves you. That is why he gets so mad.’

  ‘Go,’ he whispered.

  The boys breathed.

  Anirvan realized his hand was tightly clenched around Kajol’s. Kajol, too, held him in a squeeze. Their palms were wet with sweat.

  Sushant Kane seemed to chew his food forever. His face was clouded, and he stared at the wall before him. The old, perfumed chemistry teacher Himesh Lahiri smiled and said something. But Sushant Kane did not reply. He kept his gaze on the wall and kept chewing. There couldn’t possibly be any food left in his mouth; he must have been chewing his own teeth. He seemed to eat very little, lesser even than what he usually ate.

  Premen Swami sat at the hostel warden’s place. He took two places, he was so big. And so tall, he could see all the way to the end of the dining hall even while seated. In Conscience Hall, the dining hall was quiet and well-behaved and the trouble boys never cared where they sat. Even in the rows farthest away from the staff tables, they were under The Love Lord’s eyes. No one knew what might happen if somebody made a mistake.

  Today the staff table looked different. Mihir Dam was there as usual. He was a short and squat elderly man who taught PT and football to the senior boys. But next to him sat Niroj Bora, with a dinner that didn’t look like it belonged to the ashram. It was designed on special orders from the Love Lord. A pair of juicy chicken drumsticks stuck out from a bowl of golden sauce and next to it was another bowl with the massive head of a fish. Even on chicken nights all the boys got were three measly pieces and could not even dream of such glorious drumsticks. It was an unreal kind of a spread and the bowl of creamy, soft rosomalai that sat at the end of the semi-circle of bowls was not part of any meal the boys had ever seen at the ashram—dessert rarely reached their tables.

  Bora was absorbed in his dinner. He had showered and put on new clothes. His moist hair was combed neatly and slicked over his head. He did not look up from his plate.

  His leg was serrated with long black marks. Everybody knew. The Love Lord’s wooden cane had a metal wire entwined around it.

  ‘It’s good to see this boy eat, isn’t it?’ Mihir Dam, the senior PT teacher said as he cleared a wisp of chicken from between his teeth. ‘Boys these days have chicken-stomachs! When we were boys—that was a whole other matter!’

  ‘When we were boys, the custom was to fatten the calf before slaughtering it.’ Sushant Kane said without looking up from his food. ‘These days the calf is fattened after slaughter.’

  ‘What?’ Mihir Dam stopped chewing. A frown appeared on his face.

  The Love Lord lifted his face. Glassy eyes stared at Sushant Kane.

  Sushant Kane walked back to Bliss Hall after dinner, with Anirvan, Rajeev and Kajol. It was a still and humid night. There was no shiver in the leaves. Yet there was something lovely about the open air of the ashram. To be out in the night was beautiful.

  They walked in silence. Rajeev hummed a tune softly, a Tagore song popular in their music classes. They slowed down, in no hurry to reach Bliss Hall.

  ‘How do you fatten a calf after slaughter?’ Anirvan asked.

  Sushant Kane said nothing. He stared ahead in the semi darkness of the road. Rajeev looked at Anirvan and smiled, still humming the tune.

  ‘With chicken and fish and rosomalai!’ Kane said. His voice was matter-of-fact and he still wouldn’t look at them.

  Suddenly, a chill ran along Anirvan’s skin. He remembered the thud of Bora’s face against the steel mullions of the hallway.

  ‘Mihir Da was totally lost.’ Rajeev stopped humming and said. ‘He was looking around for calves.’

  ‘You said it,’ Anirvan stumbled, ‘in…in such a way.’ With such a dead sort of peace, he wanted to say.

  ‘Do you think Premen Swami understood?’ Rajeev asked in his shrill, musical voice.

  ‘Calves.’ Sushant Kane said to the darkness. ‘Calves for pleasure and violence.’

  That was how it went. Premen Swami saw nothing but the boy for days. The boy he chose, casting his killer eye on him, watching every mistake. One day he would call him aside, whisper darkly, tell him that he was going to fall off the cliff. And then the day would come like a curse and the Love Lord would rip open his flesh, savouring its soft tearable brownness, bruising his bare back and thighs, running loving fingers across the cane-bites across his shoulders. They were tangled in a raw mess from which none could free them. The tangle would end at dinner when the bruised boy was fed the feast of princes and he would eat, happy and grateful, for the red welts on his skin and the extra pair of chicken drumsticks in his bowl. That was how it went.

  Premen Swami had attacked Nath, the athletic tribal, just a few days back as if he was going to break him into small blood-stained pieces. Right after the soft-skinned albino Bikram Sanyal had complained to him about Nath and Chatterjee and their dance of shame around the red belt marks on his white skin. Bikram had cried and cried the whole time the Swami had tossed and turned Nath around, the brutal tribal who had refused to cry or beg for mercy. Neither would the bullied shame leave Bikram easy. He had spent the night in the Love Lo
rd’s room where the Swami had consoled him all night.

  Nobody would ever dare say anything about the marks on his body again.

  How did the Love Lord fatten the calf after slaughter? How did he do it?

  ‘Is that why you ask us to tone down the drama in our speeches?’ Rajeev asked. ‘Cut the rocky road-stormy ocean style?’

  ‘We live in the age of cinema,’ Sushant Kane said. ‘And you guys shout like it’s a medieval folk play on the village grounds.’

  ‘The candied knife.’ Rajeev said, trancelike.

  ‘Look around for calves?’ Sushant Kane said, his voice down to a whisper. ‘Mihir Dam was not looking around for calves. Calves for slaughter. Everyone knows what that means.’

  There was a chill in the air.

  ‘Everyone knows why he rips them up,’ SrK said, dreamlike. ‘Flowers, incense, music, the nasha. They beat them up because they want to do something else they can’t.’ He whispered. ‘Not always.’

  The chill caressed Anirvan. Did everybody know what the Love Lord did to his calves? How he licked and clawed and cut them open and then soothed them with a prince’s spread at night?

  ‘I was four when I was brought to the ashram. Prashant was seven, and Ashant was just two. Prashant and I only spoke Marathi, Ashant spoke nothing. The monks taught us Bengali.’ He paused. ‘It’s a trickster’s language.’

  What is a trickster’s language? What did one do to fatten one’s calves after slaughter?

  A pang of desire shot through Anirvan. Would he learn to trick with language? Grip and thrall them without looking like he was trying?

  A trickster’s language? He felt confused.

  They had arrived at the steps of Bliss Hall. Kajol freed his hand from Anirvan.

  ‘Premen Swami wasn’t tricked.’ Kajol said, suddenly.

  Sushant Kane paused at the steps. He looked at them. ‘Stay sharp. They can kill you. You won’t know you’re dead.’

  They stepped into Bliss Hall.