The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  He spent months trying to persuade Jyoti to turn down the police and sit for the examinations again. But for once Jyoti was stubborn; the police was a Class I service like any other, he said; and gazetted, too, a secure job with a good pension and gratuity scheme and a house-rent allowance. What more could they want? He had done enough to please them, and if they didn’t like it they would just have to live with it – the examinations had been pure agony and nothing anyone could do would make him sit for them again.

  As for his painting, it would be better protected in the police than anywhere else, for it is only when the world you have to make your way in has no real connection with you that your private world is safe.

  His father was cold to him for two years afterwards. Jyoti ignored him and tried hard during his training. As a result he did well enough at the Academy to be taken into the Union Secretariat. That was a considerable achievement, for usually getting into the Union Secretariat was a matter of knowing people and talking to uncles. His father thawed, for he soon discovered that, far from shouting ‘Left, right’ at constables, Jyoti’s work consisted in analysing files and writing reports like any other Class I bureaucrat.

  Jyoti was relieved because he liked peace at home, and in his own way he was happy in the Union Secretariat. The initial training had been exhausting and the work often seemed pointless, but that was only to be expected. But on the whole it wasn’t too demanding, and at least he didn’t have to wear uniforms. Actually, though he would never have admitted it to his father, he had dreaded the prospect of being posted to a district and having to spend years rushing about catching dacoits and ordering half-trained constables to shoot at mobs. But much more important than any of that was that the Union Secretariat left him time to draw and paint birds. His painting, with his knowledge of ornithology, had improved vastly. A well-known illustrator had been impressed by his watercolour of a green bee-eater – a common bird, but tinted with gradations of colour that were not at all easy to capture in watercolours. There was even some talk of a contract to illustrate a children’s book.

  Twelve o’clock and still no sign of Bhudeb Roy. In a way Jyoti Das was not surprised. He had never thought the case would amount to very much. But for some reason his boss, the Deputy Inspector-General (actually, the Additional Director of Research), had decided to take the case very seriously. Handing over the files, he had said: This is going to be an important one. Let’s see how you handle it. I want you to give it all your time; it may make a lot of difference to your career.

  Jyoti Das had read through the files conscientiously, but at the end of it he was still unable to understand why the case was so important. To him it seemed a thoroughly trivial affair. There appeared to be no rational grounds to substantiate the principal source’s belief that a retired schoolmaster in his village was being used by a foreign-trained agent of some kind, disguised as a weaver, to run a network of extremists. Of course it was possible – there were so many refugees in those border areas and they were good clay for anyone’s hands. But somehow in this case, Jyoti Das noted on the file, it seemed more likely that some kind of petty village rivalry lay behind the whole thing. At any rate, the local police could easily handle the matter. The Deputy Inspector-General was furious when he saw Jyoti Das’s notations on the file. He had summoned Jyoti Das to his room and said: Mr Das, how long have you been in the Secretariat? A few months, if I’m not mistaken. What the hell, man, you are still not knowing a case from a cauliflower? You think this is a joke? You think you’re already some kind of James Bond and you can question my judgement? When I say this is an important case, you treat it as an important case, and none of your bloody opinions and chit-chat, shit-shat. Jyoti Das had sprung to attention and snapped off a salute. Stop that, the DIG had said. You’re not in the police now. Then he had smiled and given Jyoti a fatherly pat: And never talk of handing the local police a case. The first rule in this bloody garden is that no one hands any cuttings to the police. You’ll soon find out. Those buggers are always trying to hog our work anyway. If we go around handing them cases, we’ll soon have nothing to show for ourselves and no work to do. Now, get out of here and keep me up on how the case develops.

  Now it looked as though the case wasn’t going to develop at all: the chief source had disappeared. Tell me, Jyoti Das said to the Head Constable, I suppose you know him – is he always late, or do you think something serious has happened?

  The constable shuffled his feet and nervously rubbed the brass buckle on his belt with his thumb. Jyoti Das looked at him and sat up: What’s the matter, Constable?

  Sir, he may have been held up, the constable said uneasily. People say he’s been having trouble.

  Trouble?

  Trouble at home, sir.

  Come on, Constable, Jyoti Das said. Wake up. Haven’t you been trained to give reports properly? Now, explain: what trouble?

  The constable left the window and shuffled across. He lowered his voice: ASP-shaheb, it’s his wife. She had a child five or six years ago – a girl. The girl’s always been very sickly and recently she fell seriously ill – you know what happens when people have children at such a late age. Bhudeb Roy-babu has taken the girl to all the best doctors, but nobody has been able to do anything. And now, they say, the girl’s illness has driven Parboti-debi, that is, Bhudeb Roy-babu’s wife, a little mad. I heard from a man in the village – he owns a cycle-shop and knows Bhudeb-babu and his family very well – he said that twice, late at night, Bhudeb-babu and his sons have caught Parboti-debi trying to sneak out of the house with the child. Bhudeb-babu was very angry, sir, naturally. He slapped her – in front of all his sons – and asked her: Where are you going to at this time of the night? But she, she didn’t cry at all. She looked straight at him, without lowering her eyes, and said: I’m taking her home; she’s sick because she’s not at home. Right in his face like that. Naturally Bhudeb-babu was even angrier. He shouted at her: What do you mean, ‘her home’? This is her home. But then she shouted back at him and said: No, this is not her home; her home is there – and she waved outside, maybe towards the school. You see, sir, they say that the night the child was, if you’ll excuse me, conceived there was a plane crash in the village – it was during the war, you see – and people say the crash warped her brain a bit. She thinks the plane had something to do with the child, and wants to take her back to the place where it crashed. It’s very sad. She shouts at Bhudeb-babu all the time: Let me go. Let me take the child home. You’ll kill it. It’ll die if it stays here. Poor woman; soon they’ll have to send her to Ranchi or some other asylum. Of course, he can afford it.

  Jyoti Das was incredulous. You mean to say – you mean to say he’s kept me waiting for almost two hours because his wife’s going mad?

  The constable looked at his feet. Maybe, sir, he said.

  At a quarter to one, they heard a car stop outside the police station. Greatly relieved the Head Constable announced: He’s here, sir – and sent two constables running out to escort Bhudeb Roy and three of his sons in. Jyoti Das did not move. He sat as he was, his legs crossed, leaning back in his chair. He decided not to stand up when Bhudeb Roy entered the room.

  Bhudeb Roy’s huge bulk entered the room by degrees. His three sons helped him into a chair opposite the Head Constable’s desk. Jyoti Das nodded at him and frowned. He shot his cuffs back and looked pointedly at his watch. Bhudeb Roy ignored him. He snapped his fingers and with a flick of his wrist sent his sons and the constables hurrying out of the room. He was silent for a moment, breathing hard, and looking Jyoti Das over critically. Then he leant across and smiled: I hope you had a nice rest this morning. I hope the constable made you comfortable. He’s not a bad man but a little foolish.

  Jyoti Das looked at his tiny, glassy eyes and flat nose; he saw the thin smile splintering the sagging flesh of his face, like a crack cutting through a mound of baking mud, and quickly looked away, out of the open window. He said curtly: Your telegram said your business was very urge
nt.

  Yes, said Bhudeb Roy, it is. I was held up a little at home. My wife and daughter aren’t well. I have to go back home in a few minutes. So I’d better tell you quickly.

  Yes?

  You have to act fast now, fast. You’ve read all my reports. Now you have to do something. I think the time has come to raid Balaram Bose’s house and to arrest him and his associates.

  Jyoti Das sketched a smile: Have there been some new developments, then? Something serious enough to justify that kind of action?

  New developments? What do you mean, ‘new developments’? Aren’t the old developments good enough? I wrote to you six months ago about how the extremists attacked me while I was holding a public meeting in the village. They attacked me with all their foreign weapons and everything and tried to kill me, and they disrupted the whole meeting and wrecked the law and order situation in the whole area. I had to go to hospital. You know all that; I wrote to you.

  Yes, said Jyoti Das, but I don’t think we can do anything on the basis of that one incident. Has there been anything since then?

  Of course there has, or why would I send you a telegram? Do you think they’re going to stop, now that they’ve tasted blood? I’ll tell you what happened. You know I’m building a road for the people of the village? Naturally, the extremists are doing everything they can to hold it up so that I’ll be discredited. Last week, the surveyors and some of my men were plotting the course of the road, and they found that it has to run through an unauthorized construction this man Balaram Bose has erected on government property. I warned him not to do it at the time, but he defied me. Anyway, I sent my men to tell him to have the construction demolished in a week. Do you know what he did? He got one of his hired men – a notorious goonda and Bad Character called Rakhal Debnath (he’s the ringleader’s son; I’ve referred to him in some of my reports) – to chase my men out of his house. Then he came with all his people to my house, and stood outside and shouted: You’ll never destroy my school (he calls it a school). Never. If you want to try, you’ll have to fight me to the end. He’s always been a little crazy, and now he’s gone completely mad, under the influence of that man Shombhu Debnath. So inconsiderate, too – disturbing my wife, who’s not well. I didn’t say anything then, but I sent more men to his house the next day. They found that he’s turned the whole place into a fort. He’s surrounded it with drums of acid and he spends the whole day patrolling the house armed with a squirt-gun. He never goes inside. He even sleeps there at night, in a kind of tent he’s put up outside. He shouted at my men and shot at them with acid. Tell your master he’ll never destroy me or my acid, never. You see what the situation is? He’s gone crazy, he looks it – his hair is like a bird’s nest and his eyes are blood red. I can’t even walk to the village along the path any longer; I have to go through the ricefields. You see what the situation is? You have to act now, before they become too dangerous to handle. Any day now they may escape across the border.

  Jyoti Das picked up a pencil and held it poised between his forefingers. Bhudeb-babu, he said, I’m not convinced this matter is serious enough to warrant action on our part.

  Not serious enough? After all I’ve told you? They’re a threat to my life. I’m telling you right now, you must raid that house, or you’ll regret it. That’s all I’m asking for – a raid. I’m not even asking you to make any arrests. You can decide on that yourself when you see what’s inside the house. You’ll find bombs and guns and God knows what else. I have definite information that Shombhu Debnath and his son have been getting weapons from across the border. Maybe they’re even making them in there. They completely control Balaram Bose now, and they’re thoroughly dangerous. You must raid that house.

  Jyoti Das frowned: To me it seems a matter for the local police.

  Bhudeb Roy hammered his fist on the desk. Local police? he said angrily. What use are the local police? The DSP has a heart condition and spends all his time praying in the temples in Naboganj. They’re no use to anyone. And anyway this is your job. This is a border area, which is why the case was given to you people in the first place. Haven’t I told you they’re receiving guns from across the border? You have to do something. What does the government pay you for?

  Jyoti Das was flustered but he kept his voice under control. Look, Bhudeb-babu, he said, don’t lose your temper. I’m answerable only to my superiors. I have to discuss the matter with them before any action is possible.

  Bhudeb Roy rose from his chair. Glaring into Jyoti Das’s eyes, he said: If you don’t do something soon, I’ll write to your superiors. Maybe you’ll learn then. He turned and stormed out of the room.

  Three days later, while Jyoti Das was still working on the report of his meeting with Bhudeb Roy, a clerk brought him a telephone message that had come in from a post office near Lalpukur. Jyoti Das read it and decided that he had no alternative but to take it to the DIG at once. He rang the DIG’s personal secretary and asked for an immediate appointment.

  From Bhudeb Roy? the DIG asked, stroking the thin moustache that bisected his large, square face. Jyoti Das nodded. The DIG read the message and looked triumphantly at Jyoti. Wasn’t I telling you? he said. This case is hotting up. You’ll have to leave immediately. Take a few men and ask the DSP in Naboganj to give you a few more. I’ll send him a telex, too. But don’t let him get his toes in. Shut him out.

  Yes, sir, said Jyoti.

  Then the DIG glanced at the telegram again and looked up, a little puzzled. Tell me, Das, he said. I can understand the first part, this stuff about … bomb attack … bring forces immediately, and all that. But tell me, what do you think the bugger means by ‘wife abducted’?

  Chapter Seven

  The Ghost in the Machine

  At first Maya heard the knocks faintly, through a muffling fog of sleep. She was asleep in a small, dark store-room next to the kitchen, which she had cleared out for herself, on Toru-debi’s instructions, after she and Rakhal had moved into their house. She could hear Nonder-ma in the kitchen, breathing heavily through her open mouth. She heard the sound again; three distinct taps. For a moment she wondered whether it was Alu; but he never knocked when he came at night and he knew that her door was not barred. The taps sounded as though they were farther away, on the back door perhaps. Through the barred window at the other end of the room she saw the courtyard and the tiled, sloping roof, daubed with patches of moonlight filtering through the mango tree. It was very quiet; even the cicadas were still.

  The taps again, and she was almost sure now that they were on the back door. Quietly, wrapping her sari tight around her, she went out of her room, down the passage to the door. There were three clear knocks on the thick wooden door. She stood undecided for a moment, wondering whether she ought to call Rakhal or Alu. But then she decided against it and whispered: Ke? Who’s there?

  Ami, she heard her father’s voice. It’s me, open the door, Maya, he said urgently, in an undertone. Maya sighed with relief: it was three days since she had seen him last. He had come to the house, late one night, weak with hunger and asked for a handful of puffed rice. He would eat nothing more and, though she had begged him to stay, he had disappeared again that night.

  She pulled the latch open and flung her arms around his bony, naked waist. Quiet now, he said, laughing and running his hand over her head. Quiet, quiet. Look who I’ve brought with me. And only then did Maya notice that there was a woman standing beside him.

  She was tall; Maya noticed that even in that first moment of bewildered surprise, but she could not see her face, for she had her sari hooded over her head. She had a bundle on her waist, or so Maya thought, but then the bundle stirred and whimpered, and she saw that it was a child. Shombhu Debnath ushered them into the house and turned to latch the door. The woman put out a hand and caught Maya’s arm. The anchal of her sari slipped off her head, and Maya saw that it was Parboti-debi. Parboti-debi smiled at Maya and pressed her arm. Her thin, lined face was radiant with joy. I’ve come, Maya, she sa
id. He got me out at last.

  Maya stared at her dumbstruck. Parboti-debi held up her daughter, and stroked her pale, delicate cheeks with a finger. Look, she said proudly, she’s better already now that she’s with her father.

  Maya looked at her father, and for the first time that she could remember he would not meet her eyes. He turned away and lowered his long craggy face, like a boy waiting for judgement. And when she was silent he shot her a sheepish glance and whispered: You’ll look after her tonight, Maya? Give her a place to sleep? No?

  Slowly Maya stretched out her hand and touched him on his arm. Yes, she said, I’ll look after her, and now you go and rest, too. He would have liked to draw her to him and kiss her on the top of her head as he used to when she was a child, but Maya was suddenly as old as he was, and stronger – strong enough to embrace every element of his being with love and compassion – so he turned gruffly away, while she led Parboti-debi to the store-room by the kitchen.

  In the morning Maya’s mind teemed with confused explanations as she waited for Toru-debi in the kitchen. She had already told Alu and Rakhal about Parboti-debi’s sudden arrival. Alu had said little; his only interest in the matter was how it would affect her, Maya. But Rakhal’s face had mottled with anger and his scar had burst open. The puritanical code of physical strength and purity which ruled him like some deep inviolable instinct was outraged; his mind had recoiled reflexively from the offence. He had stormed away from her. But, still, Maya didn’t worry too much about Rakhal – he had hardly spoken to his father for years anyway. Toru-debi was a worry of a different kind, founded on a fear of shame and embarrassment; Maya had no equipment to deal with situations of that kind.