A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain. I will not divulge the names of other patriots.’

  ‘We know you gave a speech at the house of a Mr Amarnath Dutta.’

  That shook him up. ‘You must congratulate your spies,’ he replied. ‘I admit that I did indeed give a speech. I spoke to an assembly of forward-thinking men about the need for independence.’

  ‘And you are aware that such an assembly is illegal?’ I asked.

  ‘I am aware that under your law such an assembly is illegal and such a speech is labelled seditious. Under this law, Indians are banned from meeting in their own homes to discuss their desire for freedom in their own country. It was passed by Englishmen without the consent of the Indians to whom it applies. Wouldn’t you agree that such a law is unjust? Or do you believe that an Indian, unlike a European, should not have the right to determine his own destiny?’

  ‘This isn’t a political discussion,’ I said. ‘Just answer the question.’

  Sen laughed, thumping his hands down on the table. ‘But it is, Captain! How could it not be? You are a police officer. I am an Indian. You are a defender of a system that keeps my people in subjugation. I am a man who seeks freedom. The only type of discussion we could have is a political one.’

  God, I hated politicals. Give me a psychopath or a mass murderer any day. Compared to a political, interrogating them was refreshingly straightforward. They were generally all too eager to confess their crimes. Politicals, on the other hand, almost always felt the need to obfuscate, to justify their actions, convince you that they worked for justice and the greater good and that you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking heads.

  ‘The rights and wrongs of the political system are not my concern, Sen. My job is to investigate a murder. That is all I am interested in doing. Tell me, what was the content of your speech at Mr Dutta’s house?’

  Sen thought for a moment. ‘I stressed the need for unity. And the need for a new course of action.’

  ‘And what was this “new course of action” to be?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to hear, Captain? You might think I’m trying to engage you in a political discussion.’

  ‘Watch yourself, Sen!’ interjected Digby. ‘We’re not interested in a lecture from a bloody babu!’

  Sen ignored him and kept his eyes firmly locked on mine.

  ‘Carry on,’ I said.

  ‘As you are no doubt aware, Inspector, until I returned to Calcutta, I had been keeping a low profile for several years. During that period, I had plenty of time to reflect on matters. It became clear to me that though we fought for the freedom of all Indians, in over twenty-five years of struggle we had made precious little progress. I began to consider the reasons for this failure.

  ‘Of course there were the obvious explanations: the peasants, so ground down by toil and daily survival that they lack all political consciousness; the infighting between our many groups, which you and your lackeys ruthlessly exploit; the fact that your spies are able to infiltrate our organisations, compromising our plans; but always I came back to one fundamental question: if our cause is just, why do the people not rally to us? Why do your spies not realise that we fight in their interests as well as our own? This was the question that vexed me and which I spent many hours a day contemplating.

  ‘When you are in hiding, one thing you have plenty of is time. I read widely. As much as I could. Books, newspaper cuttings, anything I could find on freedom struggles across the world. The fight to abolish slavery in America, the struggle for Indian rights in South Africa. I read the writings of M. K. Gandhi especially closely. He posed a different question. He asked, “If our cause is just, why do our oppressors not realise it?” He argued that once the oppressor, in his heart of hearts, admits to himself that he is wrong, he will lose the will to continue his oppression.

  ‘At first I laughed at the notion. By his logic, all we had to do was to point out to you the evil of your actions and you would recoil in horror, repent and go home. To my jaundiced eye, it was nothing more than the delusions of a hopeless naif. If only we appealed to your better natures, you yourselves would see the error of your ways!’ He laughed at the absurdity, then continued, ‘For one thing, I didn’t believe you even had better natures.

  ‘I’d watched as your troops butchered my friends. In my eyes, you were all soulless demons. But time and solitude have a way of making one see reason. As my period in hiding continued, my anger subsided. I thought more on what Gandhi and men like him were advocating. Then one day, it struck me; I still remember the moment, I was pumping water from a tube well. The process was monotonous and my mind wandered. That’s when I realised. I was guilty of the very actions that I ascribed to the British. If I accused you of treating the Indian as inferior, then it must follow that I cannot adjudge the Indian to be superior to the Englishman. We must be equal. And if we are equal, I must ascribe to you the same dignity I ascribe to Indians. If I believe that Indians have a conscience and a moral compass, in essence that we are good, then I must equally accept that most Englishmen are also good. Once that is accepted, it follows that at least some Englishmen will be open to see the error of their ways, if only they can be pointed out to them.

  ‘I realised then, that our actions – the actions of Jugantor and other groups – only served to justify your repression. Every bomb blast, every bullet, provides you with an excuse to tighten your control over us. I came to see that the only way to end British rule in India was to strip away these excuses and reveal to you the true nature of your occupation of my country. That was the message I had come back to deliver; that only through unity, among all Indians, and by reaching out to the better nature of our oppressors through non-violent non-cooperation, can we hope to gain our freedom.’

  Digby leaned back in his chair and snorted. ‘Fine words, Sen. If there’s one thing this country is not short of, it’s Bengalis making speeches. You people are never at a loss for words, are you? Always happy to argue black is white and day is night.’ He turned to me. ‘We have a saying in these parts, Captain: God save us from the fury of the Afghan and the rhetoric of the Bengali!’

  Once again Sen ignored Digby and directed his words at me.

  ‘May I ask, Captain, which of the two the sub-inspector here believes is worse?’

  Digby turned red. By talking only to me, Sen was goading him expertly.

  ‘This isn’t a debate, Sen,’ said Digby angrily, ‘but since you ask, the uppity Bengali is far worse!’

  Sen smiled. ‘It has been my experience, Captain, that many of your kinsmen reserve a special dislike for Bengalis, more so than they do for other Indians. I profess I am at a loss to say precisely why. Maybe the sub-inspector here could enlighten me?’

  ‘Maybe it’s because you all talk so bloody much?’ Digby retorted.

  ‘In that case,’ said Sen, ‘we truly are all in trouble. For over a century now we Bengalis have been told how lucky we are that you British were good enough to bestow upon us the wonderful English language and your vaunted western education, first here in our land before the rest of India. But having learned at your feet for all these years, when we avail ourselves of your gifts, we are accused of thinking and talking too much. Maybe, that western education was not such a good idea after all? Maybe it has given us “uppity Bengalis” ideas above our station? It seems the sub-inspector here believes that the only good Indians are ones that know their place.’

  I cut in before Digby had a chance to formulate anything coherent. Time was running out and I needed to get answers from Sen.

  ‘If you’d come to preach the gospel of non-violence,’ I asked, ‘why didn’t you just surrender when it was obvious you were surrounded last night?’

  ‘I considered it. I even tried to persuade my comrades to do just that. But I was in a minority.’

  ‘But you were their leader, Sen. Are you telling me they wouldn’t listen to you? You’re a persuasive man. You tell us you came back to persuade people towards the path o
f non-violence, yet you expect me to believe you couldn’t even persuade your own men?’

  ‘Have you been present at a raid carried out by your colleagues in military intelligence before?’ he asked. ‘If so, you might be aware of their reputation for being rather trigger happy. Things happen in the dark. There have been many cases where men trying to surrender have been gunned down. My comrades decided it was better to die like men than like dogs.’

  ‘And you expect me to believe that?’

  Sen sat back and sighed. He stared into my eyes. ‘I have no way of convincing you, Captain.’

  ‘I think you’re lying,’ I said. ‘I think your “new course of action” was to instigate a terror campaign starting with the assassination of a high-ranking British official.’

  ‘Why do you continue with this farce, Captain? Your spies had obviously infiltrated the meeting. They must have confirmed everything I’ve told you.’

  ‘Our informants have reported on your meeting,’ said Digby. ‘They made no mention of your miraculous conversion on the road from Dacca.’

  ‘What time did your meeting at Dutta’s house finish?’ I asked.

  ‘Just after midnight.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  ‘I talked with Mr Dutta for about half an hour. Then I left for the safe house in Kona.’

  ‘Did anyone go with you?’

  ‘I was accompanied by a comrade. Your troops killed him last night.’

  ‘And you went straight there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I banged my fist down on the table – it was a stupid thing to do – sending a jolt of pain stabbing through my wounded arm. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ I shouted. ‘I know you left Dutta’s house with an accomplice. I know you found MacAuley wandering the streets, I know you killed him and stuffed a note in his mouth. What I want to know is whether you specifically targeted him that night or whether he was just the first white man who had the misfortune to cross your path?’

  Sen’s doctor was on his feet. ‘Captain, I must protest! This man is recovering from surgery. His health is in a delicate position. Please stop this interrogation now!’

  Sen waved him to sit. ‘Thank you, Doctor, but I am willing to continue this conversation.’ He turned to me and smiled. ‘I think I may have been rather naive. You’re not interested in the truth, are you? This is about being able to say you’ve caught a terrorist who killed a government official and that the streets are safe once again for the good citizens of Calcutta – the white ones, at any rate. You don’t give a damn about finding the real killer. All you want is a scapegoat. And who better than a freedom fighter? It gives you the justification to continue your repression.’

  I turned to Banerjee. ‘Sergeant, please pass me exhibit A.’

  From a buff-coloured box file on the floor beside him, Banerjee removed the bloodstained note that had been found stuffed in MacAuley’s mouth. He flattened it out and passed it to me.

  The ink had run somewhat and the stains had turned reddish brown, but the words were still clear. I laid the note flat on the table in front of Sen.

  ‘Do you recognise this? It was found in the mouth of the deceased.’

  Sen looked at it, then laughed bitterly. ‘This is your evidence, Captain? This scrap of paper?’ He nodded towards Banerjee. ‘Has your lackey read it?’

  I realised that I hadn’t shared it with Surrender-not. It had been stupid of me not to, but I hadn’t met the sergeant when I’d found it and, with all that had happened since, I’d neglected to share it with him afterward.

  Sen read the look on my face. ‘No? I didn’t think so. Maybe you should show it to him? He’ll tell you that I wouldn’t have written that note – unless he’s totally craven, of course.’

  Behind me, Banerjee drew a sharp intake of breath. I held out a hand before he had a chance to rise further to the bait. I wasn’t about to let Sen dictate the terms of the interview, and I certainly wasn’t about to admit to him that Banerjee hadn’t seen the note.

  ‘Why did you write the note, Sen?’ I asked.

  ‘You must know that I didn’t. I shouldn’t think any Bengali wrote that note. It was obviously written by your people in an attempt to frame me.’

  ‘I can assure you that’s not the case. I found the note myself.’

  Sen sighed. ‘Then we have a problem, Captain. You claim not to believe me when I tell you I didn’t write that note. And I cannot believe you when you say your men didn’t write it to implicate an innocent Indian. We are back to our fundamental problem, a lack of trust. We both believe the other to be lying. Maybe one of us is, but then again, it is possible we are both telling the truth. It falls to one of us to believe in the better nature of the other.

  ‘Let me ask you a question, Captain. If, as you say, I wrote that note as a warning to the British, why would I write it in Bengali?’ He pointed to Digby. ‘As so vexed the sub-inspector here, I have had the benefit of an English education. Why wouldn’t I write it in English?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Digby interjected. ‘To cast doubt on your guilt should you be captured.’

  Sen shook his head as though disappointed with a particularly obtuse child. He turned to me. ‘Really, Captain, is it plausible that I would do such a thing in the hope that, should I be caught, it might sow doubt in the minds of my accusers? What good would that do me? Am I to appeal to the great British sense of fair play? Will I get to plead my case in front of a jury? Of course not! All I will get is a mockery of a trial followed by a bullet or the hangman’s noose. But I’m not afraid to die, Captain. I resigned myself to a martyr’s death long ago. I just ask to be martyred for my own actions rather than as a scapegoat for someone else’s.’

  I sat back. The interview was going nowhere. Any expectation on my part of a speedy confession had been desperately naive.

  ‘Tell me about the attack on the Darjeeling Mail,’ I said. ‘What exactly were you looking for?’

  Sen stared. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘So you know nothing about the attack on that train in the early hours of Thursday morning?’

  ‘Are you going to try to pin all your unsolved crimes on me?’ he asked. ‘As I’ve told you, I returned to spread the message of non-violence. Neither the assassination of the Englishman nor the attack on this train you mentioned have anything to do with me or my associates.’

  I checked my watch. We had been at this for almost an hour. It was time to try a change of tack. I took out a packet of Capstans and offered one to Sen. He accepted it with a shaking hand. Banerjee brought out a box of matches, lit one and offered it to him. Sen stared at him in disgust and laid the cigarette down. The match burned down to Banerjee’s thumb. He shook it, extinguishing the flame.

  Sen turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, I won’t accept anything from someone I consider a traitor to his people.’

  ‘But you’ll accept a cigarette from me?’

  ‘You and I are on opposite sides,’ he said. ‘We may have our differences, but I acknowledge your right to defend your principles. Just as you should acknowledge my right to stand up for what I believe is right. He, on the other hand,’ he gestured towards Banerjee, ‘is an accessory to the enslavement of his own people. I will not accept anything from him.’

  Banerjee flinched. I saw his fists clench, and though he held his tongue, there was the first spark of anger in his eyes.

  ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘given your new mantra of tolerance and understanding, you should consider the sergeant’s reasons for joining the police force before you condemn him? I should also tell you that if it wasn’t for him, both you and I would probably have died last night.’

  Sen paused. Finally he picked up the cigarette and held it out towards Banerjee. ‘Forgive me, Sergeant. Old habits die hard. It was wrong of me to condemn you without proof. I only hope that your Captain here follows the same principle.’

  Sen smoked, slowly savouring each drag. When a man has li
ttle left to live for, he takes his time over what few pleasures remain. I indulged him. In his position I’d have done the same. Once he’d finished, we started again; the same questions, the same replies. Again Sen denied any knowledge of MacAuley’s murder or the attack on the mail train. Again he attested his new-found commitment to peaceful change, arguing with the passion of a convert. His logic was seductively appealing. More than once I was forced to remember I was dealing with a self-confessed terrorist whose organisation had maimed and killed both Englishmen and Indians, military and civilian. His supposed transformation to a man of peace was too convenient.

  I felt sure he was capable of lying, telling me whatever would sow doubt in my mind. I was, after all, his enemy, the embodiment of everything he’d dedicated his life to overthrowing. And yet I was beginning to have doubts. Whether or not his story was true, there were some things that seemed odd, most obviously the note found in MacAuley’s mouth. Why would Sen have written it in Bengali when he spoke and wrote English as well as anyone? And why was he so adamant that I show the note to Banerjee?

  Then there was the paper itself. In the days after the murder, I’d not had the chance to examine it closely, but now, seeing it again raised questions. I’d forgotten its quality – it was luxurious, heavy, with a rich smoothness to it. The kind you’d find in the bedroom of a five-star hotel. From what I’d seen in Calcutta so far, such paper wasn’t common. The paper used by Indians was generally flimsy and coarse. Even the paper used by the police was of a quality worse than back in England. Where then would a fugitive who’d been in hiding for four years get such paper? And why would he crush it into a ball and stuff it in his victim’s mouth?

  I called a halt to the interrogation. A guard led Sen and his doctor back down to the cells. Once they’d left, I turned to Digby and Surrender-not. Digby was shaking his head while Surrender-not just sat there wearing that hang-dog expression he always seemed to wear when upset.

  ‘Well?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll say one thing for him,’ said Digby, rising to his feet, ‘he’s got some imagination. All that rubbish about non-violence. You’d think we’d arrested a saint rather than a terrorist mastermind.’