The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  Maya rose as Toru-debi came into the kitchen with her hair hanging loose over her shoulders, on her way to the pond for her morning bath. Parboti-debi was sitting cross-legged in a corner, feeding her daughter out of a bowl. Toru-debi saw her as soon as she stepped in and froze in the doorway. Parboti-debi rose to her feet and covered her head with her sari. Maya darted protectively in front of her and began to blurt out an explanation.

  Toru-debi ignored her. She smoothed her hair back with one hand and looked away, smiling crookedly. So that’s it, she murmured. I should have known. Maya stopped, for she saw that Toru-debi was talking to herself. So that’s it, she said again.

  What? Maya said apprehensively. Toru-debi frowned at her significantly, pressing her lips together, and beckoned. It’s the blouses, she whispered into Maya’s ear. She wants the blouses.

  Blouses? Maya said.

  Yes, yes, Toru-debi whispered impatiently, she wants the blouses. I know. Toru-debi squared her shoulders, drew her loose hair into a knot, and arranged a strained social smile on her face. Ah, Parboti-didi, she said, I’m glad you could come, but you shouldn’t have bothered. Of course, I knew you were coming, I dreamt – I dream a lot, you know – I knew you and Bhudeb-babu would come today. But you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. I haven’t forgotten, really. It’s just that … so much work. But never mind. I’ll finish them, right now. You can show them to Bhudeb-babu and tell him that he doesn’t have to come.

  Maya tried to break in again, but Toru-debi stopped her with an angry frown. Just wait here, Parboti-didi, she said, assuming her smile again. Have some tea. It won’t take long; I’ll finish them in a couple of hours.

  And, forgetting her bath, Toru-debi hurried back towards her room.

  Alu was in the courtyard, watching the kitchen. He ran up to Toru-debi: What happened? In an agitated rush, Toru-debi said: It’s the blouses, she wants the blouses. I promised her six embroidered blouses and then I forgot. And now she’s told Bhudeb-babu and he’s going to come, too, and God knows what’ll happen when he finds out that they aren’t ready yet.

  Involuntarily Alu grinned: It’s got nothing to do with blouses.

  The blood rushed to Toru-debi’s face. She drew her hand back, and for the first time in his life she slapped him. Fool, she cried trembling, half-witted idiot. Can’t you see how serious it is? He’s coming, and it’ll be the end of everything if the blouses aren’t ready. Only the sewing machine can save us now. Whatever happens, I’ll never let your uncle say that it was because of the blouses.

  Alu, rubbing his cheek, watched her run into her room.

  Balaram had spent the night in the canvas shelter he had rigged up on the dust path which ran past his house to Bhudeb Roy’s. It was surrounded by a circle of heavy oil-drums, with an opening where the circle met the path which ran to the front door of his house. The shelter was only a canvas sheet, stretched over the drums, and held in place by stones. There was a small tarpaulin-covered heap at one end of the circle, across from the shelter. That part of the circle was forbidden to Balaram; Rakhal had told him, at least ten times a day for days on end, never on any account to touch that heap or even go near it.

  It was a long time since Balaram had slept through the night. It was at night that he expected Bhudeb Roy to make his move. The night, he told Alu and Rakhal when they tried to persuade him to spend his nights in the house, the night is that man’s element; we can never rest at night, not till it’s over. And so he spent his nights dozing fitfully and watching Bhudeb Roy’s house. He slept when he could during the day; there was plenty of time, for over the last few weeks the number of students in the school had dwindled away until one day none had turned up at all. Sometimes, obscurely, he worried about their absence. There was something watchful and wary about it, as though they were waiting for an outcome, a result: a verdict which they would do nothing to influence. He knew he ought to do something to bring them back, but at the same time their absence was a relief. The students would only be a complication, an extra, nagging worry, when all he wanted was to get the waiting over with; this unbearable waiting to see what Bhudeb Roy would do next.

  Early that morning he had an intuition that something was going to happen, and soon. His shelter had been placed so that it commanded a good view of Bhudeb Roy’s house. Since dawn he had caught glimpses of Bhudeb Roy and his sons rushing about on their balcony and their roof. The walls blocked his view of the garden but now he could occasionally hear Bhudeb Roy bellowing at his men.

  He had a strange feeling that something unusual was happening in his own house as well. No one had come out to him that morning. Even Alu, who always brought him a cup of tea in the morning, had not appeared. He ought to check perhaps but, then, on the other hand, it wouldn’t be wise to leave his post when there was so much happening in Bhudeb Roy’s house. He thought of shouting for Rakhal and Alu, or even perhaps beating the signal they had agreed upon on the empty kerosene-tin. But he decided against that, too: they probably wouldn’t hear him if he shouted, and the signal was only for emergencies. For all he knew, this was a damp squib. And anyway, if something happened, he had only to reach out for the tin, and Rakhal would be there; he had worked out that it would take him no more than five seconds to reach the circle of oil-drums from the house.

  Balaram slapped his face twice, for his eyelids were growing heavy again. He shook his head. It seemed to him suddenly that the noise in Bhudeb Roy’s garden had grown louder. Then, equally suddenly, it stopped. Balaram leant forward on his battlement of oil-drums, tense as a spring, looking from Bhudeb Roy’s empty balcony to the gate which led out of his garden to the path, and back again.

  The gate opened and Bhudeb Roy slowly steered his bulk out into the dust path. His sons and his hired men swarmed out behind him. Balaram, breathless, snatched up the empty kerosene-tin and a bunch of hooped wires, and hammered out the signal. The bangs and rattles were deafeningly loud, but Balaram couldn’t help adding his voice: Alu, Rakhal … ashchhe re, ashchhe … they’re coming. His voice sounded oddly feeble to him; perhaps it was just the noise of the tin. He felt his knees trembling, and absent-mindedly he reached down to steady them with his hands. Then he slapped his thigh, angry with himself for wasting time, and leant against an oil-drum and watched Bhudeb Roy advance down the path with his men, in a cloud of dust.

  Bhudeb Roy was no longer in the lead; he and his sons were surrounded by his hired men. They were walking fast. They were close. He could see their faces clearly now; he could see the splinters on the sharpened ends of their wooden poles and the bicycle chains, looped expertly around their wrists, like bracelets, with their barbed ends swinging loose; he could almost feel the oiled links in his palm, snaking out stiffly when they turned sideways, swinging freely when they hung downwards. He reached down and ran his palm over the two-foot brass cylinder of his best squirt-gun. He pressed his thumb on the tiny pointed mouth of the nozzle and drew the handle back. Once again he rehearsed his plan: all he had to do was reach Bhudeb Roy with one burst of carbolic, only one, and he would turn and run as fast as his legs would carry him. That was all. His stomach churned: but would it work? Would it work? It had seemed so certain when he planned it, but now, with them so close, their dust in his nose … He could see the sweat hanging on their moustaches now, and their pocket combs, and the folded flick-knives sticking out of their breast pockets. How could it be? It usually took minutes to walk from Bhudeb Roy’s house to his; how were they so close so soon? He sensed his front door opening, heard feet flying down the path, and then Alu and Rakhal were crouching behind the oil-drums on either side of him.

  Bhudeb Roy, less than a hundred yards away, saw them, too. He shouted, and his men came to a halt, milling around him, raising a cloud of red dust. Bhudeb Roy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: Balaram-babu, I want to talk to you. Balaram could see his face, but Bhudeb Roy had been careful not to expose himself any more than strictly necessary. Two men stood in front of him, shielding
his immense body.

  Balaram-babu, Bhudeb Roy shouted again, don’t worry; this has nothing to do with you. It’s that swine Shombhu Debnath I want. Do you know what’s going on in your house? Do you know that he’s kidnapped my wife and daughter and hidden them somewhere in your house? It’s true; my men have seen foot-prints. Are you, a respectable man, a teacher, a colleague, going to shelter someone who’s kidnapped your neighbour’s wife?

  Balaram, intent on gauging the distance between them, heard hardly a word, but he shouted back: Bhudeb-babu, the one thing I’ve learnt from you is that there’s only one answer to anything you say.

  As he spoke he wondered at the inexplicable note of politeness that had crept into his voice. He pointed the squirt-gun into the air, deciding that a high trajectory would add to his range, and aimed. Then Rakhal, who had been crouching beside him, ducked below the oil-drums and crawled across the circle, to the tarpaulin-covered heap at the other end. He reached under the tarpaulin and brought out a bottle and a rag. Then he dipped the rag in a tin of kerosene and stuffed it into the neck of the bottle. With a wink at Alu, he struck a match. At the same moment, Balaram drew his shaking hand back and took a grip on the wooden bar of the handle. They heard Bhudeb Roy shout: Balaram-babu, don’t make trouble, stay out of this … And then Balaram slammed the bar forward.

  The carbolic acid shot out in an arc and spattered on to the path, raising little mushrooms of dust, a good twenty yards short of Bhudeb Roy and his men. In a burst of jeers and angry shouts, the men started forward. Rakhal leapt to his feet with a tearing scream – Joi Ma Kali! – and threw the flaming bottle high into the air. It sailed out, where he had aimed it, towards the rice field which bordered the path, and disappeared into the rice. A moment later there was a muffled explosion, and the rice around the spot where the bottle had landed was blown flat against the ground, and shards of glass and scraps of metal shot harmlessly upwards.

  For a moment Bhudeb Roy stood rooted to the path. Then he turned and ran, with quick waddling steps, towards his house. His men had already sprinted far ahead of him.

  Come back for more later, Rakhal called out after them, laughing. We’ll have some more ready for you.

  Half an hour later, when it was clear that Bhudeb Roy’s men were not going to return soon, Alu ran into the house to look for Maya. He shouted her name in the courtyard, and looked in the rooms, but she was not in the house. He found her behind the house with her father. They were sitting on the stone parapet which encircled the well, with their legs dangling over the side. He jumped up beside her and began telling her all about it at once. Yes, she said, I know. I watched it from the room above the front door. But he was too excited to stop, and he carried on, gesticulating and stammering, wishing he had the words to tell her of the indescribable excitement, the sheer gut-wrenching thrill of that moment after Balaram’s burst of carbolic fell short, and the men started to run towards them, and Rakhal threw the bottle into the air.

  And they’ll come again, he ended lamely, when he noticed that they were not really listening to him. Rakhal said they would come back at night – with some more men and maybe even guns.

  What did Bhudeb Roy say? Shombhu Debnath asked. Tell me again.

  Alu told him, trying to remember the words he had used. Shombhu Debnath became very quiet, and stared thoughtfully down at the flashes of light in the water at the bottom of the well. Soon after, he jumped off the parapet and walked away.

  A little later, when Alu was back in the circle of drums, talking to Rakhal about what might happen next, the front door opened and Shombhu Debnath came out with Parboti-debi and the little girl. Shombhu Debnath was bare-chested, as always, but he had changed out of his usual red gamcha into a threadbare but clean dhoti, and a pair of green plastic sandals. His hair, washed and oiled, hung loose below his shoulders, framing his long angular face. He had a small cloth bundle balanced on his waist. Parboti-debi, her face covered, was leading her daughter by the hand. The girl, showing no sign of her illness, hopped up and down on the path, and Parboti-debi had to scold her to be still.

  Shombhu Debnath hesitated before the oil-drums and cleared his throat. Balaram-babu, he said tentatively. Rakhal abruptly turned his back on him and began to hum a tune. Shombhu Debnath had to call out again before Balaram stirred. He turned, distracted and irritated: Ah, yes, who?

  Shombhu Debnath smiled crookedly, showing his blackened teeth. Balaram-babu, he said, I’ve come to tell you that I … that is, we are going.

  Going? Where?

  In the two hours that had passed since he pushed the handle on the squirt-gun, Balaram had experienced a curious sensation, as though every minute that passed were a strop, honing his senses, his memory and his mind together into a ferociously sharp edge of concentration. It was as though that one act, that simple moment of action, had dissolved the past and the present, sensation and memory, mind and body, and distilled them into a blissful wholeness. Nothing mattered, nothing existed now but the ecstasy of waiting for the climax, the discovery which he knew to be at hand. Did Pasteur have an inkling of this terrifying joy when he went to examine Joseph Meister the morning after he had inoculated him with his untested vaccine? Did Einstein, in the last moments before his formula appeared before him on paper? And, still, with him it was different, for with him it was his own life, the past, the present, the future. Nothing else mattered, nothing else mattered now, but the discovery. He could hear a voice, and he even knew it dimly to be Shombhu Debnath’s voice, but it was just words strung together, a jumbled noise; it had no more meaning for him than a rumble of thunder does for an ascetic awaiting a vision.

  Shombhu Debnath, ill at ease, shifting his feet, went on disjointedly: Yes, it’s best that we go. It’s me and her and the child that he wants. He has no quarrel with you: you’re two halves of an apple if you only knew it, one raw, one rotten, but the same fruit. I’m his real enemy, and I’ve won as much as I want to win, and now it’s time to run. Any healthy animal tricks what it can’t beat. He’ll never find me, and I’ll start again somewhere. This is how I came here – with a woman and a child and a bundle of clothes – and this is how I’ll go.

  Balaram threw him a quick, anxious glance, and turned back to the red-dust path. Shombhu Debnath, misinterpreting his look, said hurriedly: Don’t worry about me, I’ll manage; I even have some money saved away (and he patted a lump next to the knot of his dhoti). The boy and the girl won’t grudge it to me; after all, I’ve brought them up. It’s not much, but enough to buy a loom somewhere. No need to worry about me. It’s them I’m worried about, Rakhal and Maya. Maya won’t come; she cries but she won’t come. Anyway, that’s God’s doing. I’ve brought her up, and now she’s old enough and she has her own life here. And the boy, why, he won’t even look at his father now.

  Shombhu Debnath stopped, but there was no sign that Balaram had noticed. Shombhu Debnath stepped into the circle and shook his shoulder. Balaram started and sprang upright. A thick silvery lock of hair fell across his eyes, and brushing it away he noticed Parboti-debi for the first time. In embarrassment, he straightened his collar and tried to brush the dust and grime off his shirt. With an immense effort, he smiled politely and folded his hands. Nomoshkar, he said, and stopped, for he could think of nothing else to say. Going out? he started again, in desperation. You’re waiting for Bhudeb-babu, I suppose. He was here a moment ago; he’ll probably be back soon … He swallowed his words in confusion, and threw up his hands in a small, barely perceptible gesture, defeated by her presence. Instead he turned angrily on Shombhu Debnath: What is it? What do you want now? Can’t you see we’re busy? Let me get back to my work.

  Shombhu Debnath tried to summon a laugh. Balaram-babu, he said, I don’t want anything for myself. I only want you to go back into the house and go away to Calcutta for a holiday. You must stop this: this is madness. There’s no reason to go on like this. No reason. Stop; I beg you, stop, and go away somewhere for a few days.

  Balaram ran hi
s eyes coldly over him. Certainly not, he snapped, and turned back to look at Bhudeb Roy’s house.

  As the knowledge of his helplessness slowly dawned on Shombhu Debnath, his face crumpled. He groaned: He Shibo-Shombhu. Balaram-babu, you’ll destroy everyone without even stopping to think about it. You’re the best sadhu I’ve ever known, Balaram-babu, but no mortal man can cope with the fierceness of your gods.

  Shombhu Debnath fell to his knees and clutched at Balaram’s feet. Tears streamed out of his red eyes. Balaram-babu, stop, he said, catching his breath in sobs. For the last time, I beg you, stop.

  Balaram did not take his eyes off the house down the path, his enemy’s lair, so familiar that it was almost friendly, but now he saw in front of him a crowd of students, their clothes and features blurred and indistinct like an old photograph. They are crowding in all around him, on the floor, on the great flight of stairs opposite him, in the corridors. They are looking up at him – for he is standing on a chair – listening to him, listening intently. He can see that they are with him, that he has carried them past their initial embarrassment, accustomed them, in fifteen short minutes, to hearing someone talk rationally about underwear. He sees them stir; a little more and they’ll be cheering, just a little more. And then he hears a suppressed giggle somewhere in the stir and he raises his voice to meet this most dangerous of threats, laughter: a clean body is a new body, a new body a new life … For a moment it hangs in the balance, but then the laugh breaks through, and behind it is Middle Parting’s Calcutta-sharp face, split by an immense grin. Staring, disbelieving, he hears him shout: And what’re your little knickers like? He sees thin, shy Dantu throwing himself against Middle Parting, trying to stop him, and then he sees him going down as Middle Parting and his friends push forward. He hears them roar: Let’s see his clean little knick-ers for ourselves. We should have finished the job the first time. Come on. And the crowd breaks and surges towards him. He totters on his chair in unspeakable, bowel-loosening terror.