The City of Joy

by Dominique Lapierre

  capitalist government would not make up its mind to expropriate our carriages and give them to us, the people who actually had to pull them. It was really a very good idea and we applauded heartily. There were even men who shouted that we should demand expropriation immediately. That way there would never be any increase in rent.

  "Abdul Rahman went on with his speech, talking progressively faster and more loudly. You'd have thought he was reciting the Ramayana, for all the passion he put into his words. His finger pointed out imaginary owners and seemed to pierce them through with a knife. The effect was so spellbinding that some of my colleagues began to clap their hands, or shout, shaking their fists. The youngsters picking their way through the ranks to sell sweetmeats and tea, and even the fellows who were collecting the money, stopped to brandish their fists and shout along with the others. I don't know whether the owners and their factotums were watching this scene from afar and listening to our shouting, but if they were, they must have been making some very strange faces. If, at that moment, Abdul had asked us to go and set fire to their houses, I can well believe we would have followed him to a man. Instead, however, he took advantage of the assembly of poor fellows listening to him as if he were a guru straight out of Ganesh's trunk, to score political points and attack the government over the increase in police harassment and brutality. This was a chapter so close to our own hearts that a tremendous ovation interrupted his speech. Voices began to chant, 'Everyone to the Writers' Building!'

  "The Writers' Building is the enormous building in Dalhousie Square, in which the government offices are housed. Abdul Rahman raised his arms to try and still the shouting, but a wind of rage had suddenly blown up among his audience, like a tornado that announces a cyclone.

  "Something strange happened next. One of the pullers emerged from the crowd and, pushing aside everyone who got in his way, ran to the platform, mounted the steps, and grabbed the microphone before Abdul or anyone else could intervene.

  " 'Comrades!' he cried, 'what the babu is doing is

  lulling us off to sleep! He is trying to drown our anger in beautiful phrases! So that we remain lambs. So that all the sardarji can go on devouring us without our protest!'

  "We were in such a stupor that we got to our feet. That's when I recognized Scarface. The people on the platform hadn't dared to snatch the microphone from him. He spoke with difficulty because of his chest disease.

  M 'Comrades! It's by our actions that we should demonstrate our anger!' He raised his arm in the direction of Chowringhee. 'We have no business standing here on this esplanade. Under the windows of the owners of our rickshaws is where we should be demonstrating. I know where one of them lives! Did you know that more than three hundred rickshaws belong to him alone—to Mr. Narendra Singh, the man you call the Bihari? Comrades, it's to him and his associates that we should be demonstrating our strength. Let's go right now to Ballygunge!'

  "Scarface was just catching his breath when a dozen men in khaki uniforms burst onto the platform. They surrounded him and dragged him to the foot of the steps, whereupon Abdul took the microphone again.

  " 'Provocation!' he cried. "That man is an agitator!'

  "There were a few moments of confusion as Scarface was taken away. Several pullers rushed to his rescue but they were pushed brutally aside. It was not the evening appointed for the revolution.

  "Abdul Rahman went on talking, then it was the turn of the representatives from other unions. You could sense that they were trying to warm us up a bit, but after the incident with Scarface our hearts were no longer in it. All we could see was the fact that all those speeches had prevented us from earning our living that day and that the next day would be the same. We were asking ourselves just how long we were going to be able to hold out with the strike. At the end of all the talking, the president of the syndicate took the microphone and asked us to sing the workers' song with him. I knew nothing about any such song but the older ones among us, those who had been to meetings on the Maidan before, knew it. Abdul Rahman and the

  people on the platform struck up the song and thousands of voices on the esplanade joined in. My friends told me that it was the song of workers all over the world. It was called 'The Internationale.' "

  It had all begun with the simple matter of redistributing the land. As soon as a leftist government had come to power in Bengal, the Communist party had invited those peasants who had no land to take possession of the properties of the zamindars and to reorganize themselves to farm them collectively. Aside from the murder of a number of landowners who tried to resist, the process was completed without much violence. It was then, however, that the Naxalbari incidents broke out, and immediately the question ceased to be that of a simple confrontation between landowners and peasants and became one of the most serious political crises to threaten India since Independence.

  Naxalbari is a region at the heart of a narrow strip of land formed by the North of Bengal between the borders of Nepal and Bangladesh. Tibet and China are only a hundred miles away. It is an area scattered with tea plantations and jungles ideally suited to infiltration and guerrilla activity. There is not one single town, only a few villages and camps inhabited by peasants of tribal origin who scratch a

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  miserable subsistence from plots of ground so poor that the planters did not want them.

  A long tradition of Red activism fired these people, who had already risen up against the authorities on several previous occasions. Nowhere was the new policy of land redistribution implemented with so much vigor—nor with so much violence. Urged on by Maoist students from Calcutta, possibly trained in Peking, the Naxalites murdered, waited in ambush, and attacked the forces of order. Soon the word "Naxalite" had found its place beside those of Bolshevik and Red Guard in the lexicon of Indian Communism. Drawing their inspiration from the revolutionary teachings of Mao Zedong, the guerrillas mixed terrorism with popular warfare. In the village squares they lit bonfires to burn the title deeds and proof of debts before beheading, after the Chinese fashion, some of the moneylenders and the large landowners in front of enthusiastic crowds.

  The contagion spread as far as Calcutta. Bomb attempts, assassinations, violent demonstrations, the sequestration of political leaders and factory owners increased. Not even the slums escaped. Molotov cocktails were thrown in the streets of the City of Joy, claiming a number of victims. The Naxalites had even gone so far as to desecrate the statue of Gandhi at the entrance to Park Street, by daubing it with tar. Completely overwhelmed, the government had found itself divided over what course of action to take. The Communists in power accused both Peking of seeking to destabilize the power of the left in Bengal, and the CIA of infiltrating the Naxalite commandos to pave the way for the return of conservative forces.

  The accusations against the CIA were part of a traditional argument. Since the departure of the British, the American organization had become the habitual scapegoat whenever it was convenient to implicate foreigners in India's internal affairs. Such attacks would have been of no great consequence if they had not eventually resulted in a kind of psychosis of espionage, which meant that a certain number of foreign residents were subjected to police interference. Stephan Kovalski was to be one of these victims.

  The fact that he was a Polish Catholic priest was in itself

  suspect. To make matters worse, however, his circumstances were somewhat irregular. His tourist visa had expired ages ago and all efforts to obtain a permanent resident's visa had remained fruitless. Still, in India, bureaucracy can never be rushed. For as long as it had not officially rejected his request, Kovalski could hope that he would not be deported. What really ran the risk of weighing most heavily against him was the place where he lived. No official could seriously believe that a European would willingly and purely for his own satisfaction share in the misery and poverty of those who lived in the slums. His presence in the City of Joy must be for other motives.

  So it was that one morning, at about ei
ght o'clock, four inspectors in Western attire and belonging to the District Intelligence Branch of the Calcutta Police (DIB), showed up at the entrance to Nizamudhin Lane. The police intrusion provoked a lively reaction. Instantly the entire neighborhood was alerted. Dozens of people came running to the scene. Some of them had armed themselves with sticks to prevent anyone taking away their "Father." The Polish priest himself would have been surprised to find out about the upheaval around his person. This morning hour was the time when he had his daily dialogue with his Lord. Seated in the lotus position, his eyes closed, his breath slowed to a minimum rate, he was praying before the picture of the Shroud of Christ.

  "I didn't hear the police banging on my door," Kovalski was to recount. "How could I have heard them? That morning, as on every other, I was deaf to any noise, deaf in order to be alone with my God, in order to hear nothing but his voice in the very depths of myself, the voice of the Jesus of Anand Nagar."

  As custom dictated, the policeman who appeared to be in charge took off his sandals before entering the room. He was a chubby man and his teeth were reddened with betel. From the pocket of his shirt protruded three ballpoint pens.

  "This is where you live?" he asked in an arrogant tone, casting a look around.

  "Yes, this is it."

  The picture of the Sacred Shroud attracted the police-

  man's attention. He closed in on it with a look of deep suspicion.

  "Who is that?"

  "My Lord."

  "Your boss?"

  "If you like," agreed Stephan Kovalski with a smile.

  The policeman was obviously in no mood for pleasantries. He scrutinized the picture closely. Doubtless he had found a piece of evidence. He summoned one of his subordinates and ordered him to take it off the wall.

  "Where are your personal effects?" he asked.

  Stephan Kovalski indicated the small metal trunk that a Christian family had lent him to protect his Gospels, a few medicines, and the small amount of linen he possessed.

  The inspector examined each item, as he searched methodically through the contents of the trunk. A horde of beetles made off in all directions.

  "Is this all?" he marveled.

  "That's all I have."

  The man's incredulous expression wrung a certain pity from Stephan Kovalski, who found himself wanting to apologize for having so few possessions.

  "Do you have a radio?" he asked.

  "No."

  The policeman looked up to inspect the framework of the hovel and established that there was not even an electric light bulb. He took out a notebook and began to draw a floor plan of the room. This took quite a while because none of his three ballpoint pens would work properly.

  It was then that an unexpected diversion occurred. Alerted by some of the neighbors, Bandona burst into the room, fire in her eyes. She grabbed the inspector and pushed him toward the door. "Get out of here!" cried the young Assamese girl. "That is a poor man sent by God. God will punish you if you torment him."

  The policeman was so astonished that he raised not the slightest resistance. Outside the mob had grown—the street was full of people.

  "She's right!" a voice cried. "Leave our 'Big Brother' alone."

  The policeman in charge appeared perplexed. Then turning to the priest, he joined his hands in front of his forehead and said courteously, "I would be very grateful if you would accompany me to the general police headquarters. I would like to furnish my superiors with the opportunity of a short conversation with you."

  Then addressing himself to Bandona and the assembled crowd, he added, "Don't worry. I promise to return your 'Big Brother' to you by the end of the morning."

  Kovalski waved goodbye to the friends who had come to his rescue and accompanied the inspectors to the police van parked at the entrance to the slum. Ten minutes later he got out in front of a dilapidated building not far from Howrah Hospital. Four flights up a dark staircase stained with red spittle of betel chewers led to a large room cluttered with worm-eaten cupboards full of piles of official papers protected from the circling of the fans by scraps of old metal. Apparently it was teatime because the inspectors in the room seemed far more preoccupied with emptying their cups and chatting than studying files concerned with state security. The entry of this sahib in basketball shoes disrupted their various conversations.

  4 'This is the Polish priest who lives in Anand Nagar," announced the policeman with as much pride as if he had been bringing in the murderer of Mahatma Gandhi.

  The one who seemed to be the senior officer present, a small man with carefully sleeked gray hair, dressed in an immaculate dhotU invited Kovalski to sit down in front of him. After fetching Kovalski a cup of tea, he lit a cigarette and asked, "Do you like it in our country?"

  "Enormously."

  The police officer looked thoughtful. He had a strange way of smoking. He held his cigarette between his index and his middle finger and inhaled the smoke from the cavity formed by his thumb and bent index finger. He looked as if he were "drinking" it.

  "But don't you think that our country has more beautiful things to offer a foreign guest than its slums?"

  "Certainly," agreed Kovalski, "but it all depends on what one is looking for."

  The chief inspector inhaled another puff. "And what might you be looking for in a slum?" he asked.

  Kovalski tried to explain. Listening to himself talk, he found himself so unconvincing that he was sure he was only increasing the suspicions of his interviewers. He was wrong. In India there is so much respect for compassion for others that his explanations aroused sympathy.

  "But why aren't you married?" asked an inspector with a mustache.

  4 'I am married," the Pole said. Confronted with their skeptical expressions, he elaborated, U I am married to God."

  The policeman who had searched his room proceeded to unfold the picture of the Sacred Shroud and put it on the gray-haired senior officer's desk.

  "Sir, this is what we found in his place. He claims it's a picture of his 'Lord.' "

  The chief inspector examined the picture carefully.

  "It's Jesus Christ," explained Kovalski. "Just after his death on the Cross."

  The man nodded respectfully.

  "And this is who you're married to?"

  "I am his servant," the priest replied, not wishing to complicate the discussion.

  So great is the impact of the sacred in India that Stephan saw a light of sympathy on the faces surrounding him. This time he was sure he had dispelled their suspicions.

  It was then that the chief inspector sat down in his chair again. His face had hardened.

  "All the same I would like to know what your connections with the CIA are," he asked.

  Kovalski was so stunned by the question that he was at a loss for words. "I have no links at all with the CIA," he eventually managed to articulate.

  There was so little conviction in his voice that the senior officer persisted.

  "And you are not in contact with anyone connected with the CIA?"

  Kovalski shook his head.

  "And yet the majority of foreigners who purport to be

  social workers are CIA agents," added an assistant with shiny skin. "Why should you be an exception?"

  Kovalski made a supreme effort to remain calm.

  "I wouldn't know whether the majority of 'social workers' are CIA agents," he said steadily. "But I read enough spy novels when I was young to be able to assure you that it would be very difficult for a poor fellow living twenty-four hours a day in a slum to be an effective agent. And your policing is quite efficient enough for you to know that the only visits I have are from people who live in the slums. So please be good enough not to waste your time and mine with such nonsense."

  The gray-haired senior officer had listened without stirring. By now all his colleagues had formed a circle around him and the Pole.

  "Shri Kovalski, forgive me for causing all this unpleasantness," the chief inspector apologized, "but I
have my duty to perform. So tell me a little about your connections with the Naxalites."

  "The Naxalites?" repeated Kovalski, flabbergasted.

  "The question isn't quite as absurd as you appear to think," the chief inspector added curtly. Then, more gently, he went on, "After all, don't your Jesus Christ and the Naxalites have a number of factors in common? Don't they claim to be rebelling against the same thing? Against the injustices that repress the poor and the weak, for example?"

  "Yes, indeed," agreed Kovalski. "But with the important distinction that Jesus Christ conducts his rebellion with love; the Naxalites murder and kill."

  "So you're against the activities of the Naxalites?" intervened the assistant with the shiny skin.

  "Resolutely. Even if at the beginning their cause was a just one."

  "Does that mean you're equally opposed to the Maoists?" inquired the senior officer.

  "I'm opposed to anyone who wants to achieve happiness for some by cutting off other people's heads," said Kovalski firmly.

  At this point in the cross-examination there was a little light relief. The chief inspector lit up a fresh cigarette and the office boy refilled the teacups with boiling milk.

  Several of the policemen made themselves up a wad of betel which turned their teeth and gums an unattractive sanguinolent color. Then the questioning continued.