by Amitav Ghosh
Bhudeb Roy was so gratified by the speech that he actually giggled. Nothing would have pleased him more than the buttressing of his mundane powers with an element of the supernatural. Bolai-da swore later that Bhudeb Roy went into the house right then, and for a full half-hour argued with Parboti-debi and scolded her, urging her to go into the village with the delegation. But for once Parboti-debi, usually so compliant, was adamant. She would not go. The delegation returned, disappointed, and nobody saw Parboti-debi again during her confinement.
When the child was born, the whole village was invited to the house to see the baby and feast on sweetmeats, and nobody had any doubts about its divine instigation left.
The child was a girl, and it was well known that Bhudeb Roy had long wished for a daughter. And she was beautiful, far more beautiful than any child Bhudeb Roy could have fathered unaided. She was obviously sickly, but still the most beautiful child anybody had ever seen – eyes like liquid jet, skin like honeyed milk, hair like curled ebony.
Like everybody else, Bhudeb Roy interpreted the birth of the child as a sign. It was probably at that time that he first began to think of closing the school down. He had kept it going somehow, in the two or three rooms that were left standing. But it had long been clear that the school was only a diversion which took away time from politics, from his children, from money, from the village.
But the day he finally decided – when the child was less than a year old and still sickly – it was only after an immense effort. After all, he had devoted a large part of his life to the school; it was a testament to a youth he was still loath to part with. There was some vanity in it, too: he liked to walk down those corridors looking at pictures of himself and he liked to hear visitors’ compliments.
The tears which rolled down his cheeks on the day he invited the villagers into the school to hear his last speech as headmaster were therefore very real and painful tears. When his twenty young men led in the villagers, the tears were pouring down in a stream. Through his own he saw answering tears in the crowd. Don’t worry, he wept, waving a consoling hand at the garlanded pictures of himself which had been arrayed behind him on the podium. These aren’t going away. They’re going to be closer to you than ever. They’ll be right among you, everywhere, in the banyan tree, in your houses, in your shops. You’ll never be far from me.
The tears flowed faster as he read accusations into the crowd’s silent, fixed gaze. I couldn’t help it, he cried. It had to come to an end. It was a good school in its time, but that time is past. A new time beckons. The time to teach is over. The time has come to serve the people.
The time has come, he said, his tears drying on his cheeks, for straight lines. The trouble with this village is that there aren’t enough straight lines. Look at Europe, look at America, look at Tokyo: straight lines, that’s the secret. Everything is in straight lines. The roads are straight, the houses are straight, the cars are straight (except for the wheels). They even walk straight. That’s what we need: straight lines. There’s a time and an age for everything, and this is the age of the straight line.
He stopped and his eyes scanned the crowd. Unerringly, with an inevitable certainty, they found Balaram, his alter ego, his doppelgänger, the twin who had journeyed with him so long through the same school, and there was not a soul in that schoolyard who would not have sworn that he was asking Balaram for his approval.
But Balaram was looking away, his face strained with concentration, his head cocked, for all the world as though he were listening to a voice. But that voice was not Bhudeb Roy’s.
Do you think that was when he thought of it? Alu asked Gopal one day when he was in hiding in Calcutta after it was all over.
Yes, said Gopal sadly, he told me so. In a way it was only natural – he had to think of something. After all, the closing of the school meant the end of his livelihood. But Balaram being what he was, of course, that was the last thing on his mind. By that time he was certain that Bhudeb Roy was lying about his reasons for closing the school down. He was quite convinced that it was really the carbolic or antiseptic or whatever it was. He told me so. He said: Bhudeb Roy lives in mortal fear; there is nothing in the world that he fears as much as carbolic acid. His whole life is haunted by his fear of antiseptic. He’d do anything, go to any lengths to destroy my carbolic acid. He fears it as he fears everything that is true and clean and a child of Reason. He’s closing the school down because he thinks it’ll put an end to my work with disinfectants.
Of course, it all seemed very strange to me, so I said: But, Balaram, be reasonable. Surely he could find other ways of putting an end to your work with carbolic acid? Maybe he really is busy and wants more time for his work or politics or something like that …
Balaram was very angry. He said: Don’t be a fool, Gopal. I know that man. I’ve grown old with him. I’ve watched Ideality and Wonder and Hope disappear into depressions in his skull, and I’ve watched his squamous suture bloat like a dead dog in a ditch. There’s nothing I don’t know about that man. I know him better than I know myself. And I know this: he lives in terror of carbolic acid, and he’ll do anything he can to destroy my supplies. But I’ve learnt my lessons, too, and he won’t find it easy. I’ll fight him to the end. I know how. I knew it when he started talking about straight lines.
So that was when the idea came to him. That was when the battle lines were finally drawn.
(Gopal had always had the romantic spectator’s tendency to dramatize.)
That was when the Pasteur School of Reason was conceived in Balaram’s mind.
Chapter Five
The School of Reason
People were always surprised to discover that Balaram had a genuine flair for organization.
The Rationalists, for instance, even Dantu, were no less than amazed at the energy, determination and capacity for attention to detail he showed once he set to work in earnest after being elected president. Many of them were frankly admiring. That alone was a considerable achievement, for it was quite a different matter when Balaram first put his idea to them soon after his election. They were quite horrified then.
After the first shocked silence someone had managed to croak hoarsely: A campaign against dirty underwear? Balaram nodded cheerfully while dubious glances perforated the silence. The gloom deepened, for no one knew what to say. It had come as a shock: dirty underwear was tough meat after a diet of salutations to the Cosmic Boson and exposés of mythologized fireworks.
But, Balaram, do we know, is there any concrete evidence to suggest, that Pasteur felt as strongly about dirty underwear as you seem to think?
Balaram had an answer ready: No, there’s no direct evidence, really; but, as you know, biographers often skip over great men’s opinions on these somewhat … unconventional … subjects. But I don’t think there can be much doubt that he felt strongly on the subject. We know, for example, that whenever Pasteur sat down to eat he would first pick up his plate and his glasses and examine them minutely, and then he’d carefully wipe them clean of germs with his handkerchief. He’d do that wherever he happened to be, no matter whether his host was a king or a dish-washer. Petty social conventions never worried Pasteur. If he felt so strongly about crockery, we don’t have to think very hard to imagine his views on underwear.
But most of the members of the society were far from convinced. There was a plaintive cry from the back of the room: Why does it have to be a campaign against underwear? Can’t we think of something else? Couldn’t we start a campaign to teach people the principles of hygiene or something like that instead?
To everyone’s surprise that aroused the usually mild-mannered Balaram actually to pound his fist on his palm. Don’t you see? he cried in appeal. That’s the whole point. The Principles of Hygiene are exactly the same thing as the Cosmic Boson or the last pterodactyl. They’re all like interesting books which you can thumb through and put back on your shelf without once feeling a need to change yourself or your own life in any way at all. T
hat is precisely what we don’t want: we’ve had enough of that kind of thing. We want something immediate, something none of us can turn our backs on; something which holds a new picture of ourselves in front of our eyes and says: Look! This is what you must become! Maybe we can’t do very much, but at least we can make a beginning. All we want to do is make people think. And what better place to begin with than the body and its clothing? No one can turn his back on his body and his own clothes. If only we can sow the germ of a question in their minds, their own clothes and limbs will do the rest for us. They’ll become daily reminders, daily pinpricks, to shake them out of their smugness.
But, Balaram – a shame-faced cough from a new member – think of the embarrassment. How can we talk of underwear in public? What will people say?
Balaram smiled at him gently. Our embarrassment will be the first sign of our victory. If we’re embarrassed, it will be because the matter is so close to us; because talking of our underwear in public means thinking about ourselves in a new and different way. None of us was embarrassed to talk about the Cosmic Boson precisely because it meant so little to us. This is different, and for that very reason we must expect, indeed hope, to be embarrassed.
And just then, when the issue was as good as decided, Dantu rose to his feet. Balaram, he said, everyone here knows that we are friends. They know that I’ve never had any doubt that you are the best person to be president of this society. But today – and I wish it were not so – today I have to say that on this business I think you’re absolutely, totally wrong.
Balaram glanced quickly around the room. He could see from the watchful faces around him that everything hung in the balance now; that his answer would decide the future of his enterprise. He clasped his hands before him and leant back: Why?
Because I can’t help remembering what you said to Gopal once in this very room. You said: What good will it do anyone if the people of Hindusthan begin to chant He Boson instead of He Ram? I think you have to answer the same question today. What good will it do anyone if the students of this college begin to wash their underwear not only every day, but also every hour? Will it make any difference to anyone? Dirt doesn’t lie in underwear. It is the world, the world of people, which makes dirt possible. How can you hope to change people’s bodies without changing the world?
A painfully slow moment dragged by. Then, very gravely, Balaram said: Why do we always think of changing the world and never of changing people? Surely, surely, if we succeed in making even one person, just one, ask of himself how can I be a better, cleaner human being, we will have changed the world; changed it in the best of possible ways.
Dantu hesitated, torn between loyalty to Balaram and his own beliefs. He could sense that Balaram had carried the others with him.
It’s a mistake, Balaram, he said quickly, a terrible mistake – you’ll see. And then he dropped on to the mat and huddled back against the wall.
There were no more objections. A small but enthusiastic group volunteered to help Balaram organize the campaign. Dantu said nothing more about the matter. Once, days later, when Balaram tried to talk to him about it, he murmured sadly: It won’t work, Balaram, you’ll see. I only hope nothing terrible happens. And he went racing off to a lecture and left Balaram standing in the middle of the corridor.
There were a few other sceptics among the Rationalists who whispered behind their hands that this was just another of Balaram’s fancy ideas. He wouldn’t be able to do anything about it – how could anyone organize a campaign for clean underwear? It was just a lot of talk; he wouldn’t even be able to begin when it came to it.
Balaram proved them wrong.
He began by racking his brains for a catchy name for the campaign. A few days’ thought produced: The Campaign for Clean Clouts. The majority of the Rationalists were enthusiastic. Some went so far as to call it a masterpiece of alliteration. But one of the English literature people objected: It’s an archaism; no one will know what it means. Balaram swept him aside: All the better; it’ll make them curious.
He decided to launch the campaign with a public meeting. The venue was a problem at first. A few of the Rationalists argued that it ought to be held in a lecture room. Balaram considered the proposal quite seriously but eventually decided against it. Lecture rooms, he said, are no better than bookshelves; as soon as you enter one you know that everything inside is dead. Instead he decided to hold the meeting at the top of the great flight of stairs which lead up from the portico in the main building of Presidency College to the wide veranda of the first floor. No one can ignore it there, he said. They’ll come in their hundreds, you’ll see.
After that Balaram wrote out notices announcing the meeting. He kept the notices deliberately vague. They said only: Meeting to launch the Campaign for Clean Clouts – come, see, listen and begin a new life. Underneath he wrote the date and the time in small but distinct letters.
Over the next two weeks Balaram leaked the notices out a few at a time. He stuck a few up on pillars and in other prominent places, but always took them down a few hours later. Occasionally he slipped one or two into a few chosen rooms in the Eden Hindu Hostel. People will be more intrigued, he explained, if there aren’t too many of them.
It worked. Days before the meeting there was a buzz of curiosity in the college and in the hostel. The Rationalists were under strict instructions to say nothing; but a few, as Balaram had calculated, could not help dropping scattered hints. That only served to whet the general curiosity.
When the day came, even the most sceptical of the Rationalists admitted that they had been wrong. The meeting was a triumph for Balaram even before it began. There were no less than a hundred and fifty students crowded on to those stairs. Middle Parting and his friends were conspicuous in the centre of the crowd. They were as boisterous as ever, but they were also curious. When Balaram, shivering with nervousness but immensely elated, climbed on to a chair to begin the meeting, the crowd was still growing. It was the best possible tribute to his talent for organization.
So Balaram was perhaps the only person in Lalpukur who was not surprised by the success of the Pasteur School of Reason. He had a shrewd appreciation of his own abilities.
Once the idea of the Pasteur School of Reason had been conceived in his mind, Balaram had no doubt that he would be able to organize the school successfully. But he was also astute enough to know that he would have to work hard to make other people share his optimism. He had learnt that lesson from his experience with the Rationalists.
He was not wrong. Shombhu Debnath burst into frank laughter when Balaram first put the idea to him. You’re wrong, Balaram-babu, he said hoarsely, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m no teacher. I certainly wouldn’t be able to teach in a school.
Balaram was determined to be patient. Shombhu Debnath was essential to his plans. He thought for a moment, looking around him at Shombhu Debnath’s bare courtyard, dappled by the failing evening light. He gripped the edge of the rickety chair that had been carried out for him and leant forward, towards Shombhu Debnath, who was squatting on the earth. You’re a very good teacher, he said and he pointed at Alu, who was working in the loom-shed. Look how well you’ve taught Alu. It’s your duty to teach others as well. There are so many people in the village today who have nothing to do, no way of earning a living. You could teach them a way, and you must. It’s your duty, not just to them, but to yourself. Teaching is your destined vocation – it’s written all over your skull. You cannot squander your gifts. You could teach them your craft and together we could teach them more than a craft. We could show them the beginning of a new history.
Shombhu Debnath snorted. You can keep your history, he said, picking at his blackened teeth with a blade of grass. I don’t want anything to do with it. Whenever people like you start talking about history you can be sure it means nothing but trouble for people like me.
He rose to his feet and looked away. No, Balaram-babu, he said, you’re wasting your time. There’s no point in
going on with this.
Suddenly he paused and his red eyes narrowed. Does this business have anything to do with Bhudeb Roy? he said sharply.
Certainly not, said Balaram.
But this … school will be right next to Bhudeb Roy’s house? I mean, it will be in your house? Will it?
Balaram nodded eagerly. Shombhu Debnath smiled. His red eyes gleamed at Balaram. All right, he said. Maybe I’ll teach in your school. It won’t do me any harm. Why not?
Balaram jumped to his feet in elation. He had expected days of argument before Shombhu Debnath agreed; it was nothing less than a windfall. He slapped Shombhu Debnath on his bare back. You’re doing the right thing, Shombhu-babu, he said, choking with joy. Our school couldn’t have a better beginning.
Shombhu Debnath had been the really important uncertainty in Balaram’s mind. The rest of his plans were clear. The School of Reason was to be open to everyone in Lalpukur – to men and women, boys and girls, people of any age at all, but the illiterate were to be given preference. The School would have two main departments. After much careful thought Balaram had decided to name one the Department of Pure Reason and the other the Department of Practical Reason: abstract reason and concrete reason, a meeting of the two great forms of human thought. Every student would have to attend classes in both departments. In the Department of Pure Reason they would be taught elementary reading, writing and arithmetic, and they would be given lectures in the history of science and technology. Balaram was to be the head and probably the only teacher in that department. In the Department of Practical Reason, the students would be taught weaving or tailoring (but that again was uncertain, for it depended on Toru-debi’s assent). Alu and Maya were to teach Elementary Weaving – the techniques of starching, winding, warping and basic coarse weaving – while Shombhu Debnath would teach Advanced Weaving. Shombhu Debnath would be the head of the Department of Practical Reason, but Toru-debi, if she agreed, would head her own section. Balaram would be headmaster of the school or, as he preferred to put it, the Fount of Reason.