That evening hundreds of thousands of the city's inhabitants squeezed themselves onto the banks of the river; it took Hasari hours to reach the water's edge. When at last he did manage it, the members of the family who owned the statue, who had followed it in a second rickshaw, garlanded the goddess with flowers and lowered her slowly and respectfully into the water. Hasari watched with emotion as she moved away, carried along by the current. Like all the other Durgas she was bearing away, to the immense expanse of the ocean, all the joys and the hardships of the people of Calcutta.
I t w a s no easy venture! After the Hindi and Urdu he had so painfully deciphered by means of a comparative study of the Gospels, Stephan Kovalski had resolved to break through his linguistic isolation once and for all. Armed with a grammar book, every morning and evening he applied himself to conquering the Bengali language. By a stroke of good fortune, at the very beginning of the work there were a number of sentences translated from Bengali into English. Assuming that the names of towns and other proper nouns would be written the same way in both languages, he identified the corresponding words and broke them down to work out a Bengali alphabet for himself. In the chapter on pronunciation, diagrams showed the position of the tongue in relation to the palate, teeth, and lips for each letter. Thus the O was pronounced with the extremity of the lips slightly open but with the mouth closed. To make the U sound, you had to wedge the tongue against the upper teeth. It was so complicated that he had to go to the bazaar in Howrah to buy a mirror, a piece of equipment which greatly aroused the curiosity of his neighbors. Thus equipped, he was able gradually to
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master the gymnastics of the innumerable aspirated letters which made people appear permanently breathless when speaking the Bengali language. These efforts also provided him with the opportunity to make a discovery. "The image that the glass threw back at me was far from cheering. My hairline had receded badly and my cheeks were hollow. They had taken on the gray tinge of the slum."
His sad appearance was an indication that Kovalski's Indianization was well under way. One day his neighbors recognized that the process was almost complete. It was at the conclusion of a marriage ceremony. Some Hindu friends had just married their last daughter to the son of one of his neighbors. Kovalski knelt down in front of the father and mother to do what possibly no other foreigner had done before him. He wiped the dust from their sandals and raised his hands to his forehead. This gesture was a way of saying to them, "Since my little sister has married my little brother, you are my parents. I have become a member of your family."
That evening Kovalski went to the jeweler-usurer in the alleyway. He showed his metal cross with the two dates— the ones of his birth and his ordination—and asked him to engrave underneath them the word "Premanand" he had chosen to be his Indian name. In Bengali, Premanand meant "Blessed is he who is loved by God." He asked the jeweler to leave a space next to the inscription, so that he could engrave, when the time came, the third most important date in his life. For that very day Kovalski had taken an extraordinary step, a step that was quite incomprehensible to Indians convinced that nothing could change the condition given to them at birth, except death and another life.
He had been to an office in the Home Ministry to fill in the forms, asking the government of India for the honor of becoming officially one of the race of the poor in the City of Joy. He had applied for Indian citizenship.
Ashish and Shanta Ghosh, the young Hindu couple on the Committee for Mutual Aid, interrupted Kovalski one
evening when he was engaged in one of his linguistic miming sessions in front of his mirror.
"Father, we've got some news for you," said the boy, fretfully rubbing his beard. "You'll be the first to know."
Kovalski invited the visitors to sit down.
"We've decided to leave the slum soon and go back to our village."
From beneath her red veil, Shanta watched for the priest's reaction.
"Dear God," thought Kovalski, "this is the greatest thing I've heard since I arrived in the City of Joy. If people actually start making their way back to their villages, we're saved!" He could not actually conceal his joy.
"What's made you...?"
"For three years now we've been saving up paisa after paisa" Shanta went on. "And we've been able to buy two acres of good land near the village from a Hindu who was marrying off his daughter."
"We're going to have a big pool dug out in the middle, to breed fish," her husband explained.
"And the water will provide us with a second harvest in the dry season," added Shanta.
Kovalski sensed that he was witnessing a kind of miracle, the miracle of which thousands of starving people compelled to take refuge in Calcutta dreamed.
"Shanta will go first with the children," said Ashish. "She will sow and pick the first crop of rice. I shall stay here to earn a little more money. If the first harvest is adequate, I shall leave too."
The young woman's beautiful dark eyes glowed like embers.
"But, above all," she said, "we want our return to bring something for the people of our village, something that will be like a breath..."
"Of fresh air," said her husband. "The Bengal earth could yield three harvests if it were properly irrigated. I shall try and form a cooperative."
"And I shall start up a craft workshop for the women."
His eyes half-closed, his mirror on his knees, Kovalski listened in wonder. "May God bless you," he said at last. "For once light and hope will spring forth from out of a slum."
The receptionist burst into the room without knocking.
"Monsieur le Consul, there is an Indian lady outside who insists that she wants to speak to you urgently. She says that in the slum where she lives a Polish missionary is dying of cholera. She says this missionary holds a French passport. This is why she has come to our consulate. He's refusing to allow himself to be taken to a clinic. He wants to be treated like all the others..."
Sixty-two-year-old Antoine Dumont, complete with his bow tie and rosette of the Legion d'Honneur, was the representative of the French Republic in Calcutta. Ever since Louis XV's filibusters had come to these latitudes to tickle British supremacy and set up their warehouses, France had maintained a consulate in one of the old blocks in the neighborhood of Park Street.
The diplomat scratched his mustache and stepped out into the corridor that served as a waiting room. Thirty years of postings in Asia had accustomed him to putting up with many an annoyance occasioned by his compatriots or holders of French passports. Hippies, drug addicts, easy 224
riders, deserters, tourists who'd been robbed: he had never begrudged any of them assistance and support. Nevertheless, this was undoubtedly the first time he had received an SOS concerning an ecclesiastic who was dying "voluntarily" of cholera in the depths of an Indian slum.
The previous evening Shanta and Margareta had discovered Kovalski lifeless in his room. He was lying, completely drained, in the middle of his own vomit and excreta. It was just as if his insides had been eaten up by some invading parasite. His muscles had collapsed and his skin, stretched over his bones, looked more like parchment. He was conscious, but so weak that any effort to talk risked extinguishing the little life still burning in him.
The two Indian women had instantly diagnosed his illness: a lightning form of cholera which, oddly enough, showed a predilection for more robust constitutions.
Kovalski had felt the first symptoms of it during the previous night, when painful stomach cramps had sent him rushing to the latrines several times. Despite the heat, he had begun to shiver. Next he had felt a tingling sensation in the tips of his hands and feet, followed shortly afterward by a general twitching of his muscles. His feet and legs turned a curious bluish color. The skin of his hands dried up, before wrinkling and hardening. Although sweating profusely, he grew colder and colder. He felt the flesh of his face shrink over his cheekbones, then across his nose, his forehead, as far as his skull. It was more and mor
e difficult for him to close his mouth and eyes. His body was racked with spasms. He began to vomit. His breathing became jerky and painful. He made an effort to drink but nothing, not even a few drops of water, would clear his throat that was as if paralyzed. At about four or five in the morning, he could no longer feel his pulse. That was when he sank into a kind of torpor.
When he awoke, he wanted to get up to go back to the latrine, but he had not the strength to stand up, or even to kneel. He had to let himself go right there where he was. Soon he told himself he was going to die. The idea brought with it no fear. On the contrary, in his extreme weakness he experienced a kind of euphoria.
The two Indian women interrupted what he would later
call "a delicious sensation of tiptoeing towards nirvana." Neither Shanta nor Margareta, however, felt disposed to let their "Father" die without a fight. Margareta seized the bowl and sprinkled the sick man's face and torso to moisten his skin. Her first concern was to check dehydration, but the Indian woman knew that only an immediate infusion with plasma had any chance of stopping the disease. They must get the priest to an intensive care unit without delay.
"Hang on, Stephan Daddah," she begged, as she moistened his face with a corner of her veil. "We're going to take you to Bellevue."
Every inhabitant of Calcutta, even the poorest of the poor, knew the name of the luxurious private clinic set among palm trees in the Park Street neighborhood. There Bengal's medical elite operated on and nursed rich marwaris, senior government dignitaries, and members of the colony of foreigners, in conditions of hygiene and comfort comparable to those of a Western establishment. Margareta knew that the Bellevue clinic would not refuse to take in her "Father." He was a sahib.
A grimace contorted Kovalski's face. He wanted to speak but had no strength to do so. The Indian woman bent over him. She realized then that he was refusing to leave his room. He wanted "to be cared for like the poor here." Stephan Kovalski had known dozens of men struck down by cholera in the City of Joy. They stayed where they were. The toughest survived; the others died. During the monsoon the number of cases increased. Because of lack of space, medicines, and doctors, the hospitals almost invariably turned them away. For him there was no question of being given privileged treatment.
Confronted by this unexpected resistance, the two women went to confer with their neighbors. It was decided that the rector of the church should be alerted. He was the only one, they thought, who might be able to persuade his fellow priest to allow himself to be transported to the Bellevue clinic. Father Cordeiro gave them a somewhat reserved reception and immediately dismissed any idea of his intervening personally with Kovalski.
"I can see only one solution," he said. "And that's to
inform the Polish consul. Or better, the French consul, since Kovalski holds a French passport. After all, the person concerned is one of those for whom he's responsible. Only he can oblige that stubborn foreigner to let himself be cared for in the normal fashion. Or at least he can try."
Margareta was designated as emissary. So effectively did she convince the diplomat of the urgent need for his intervention, that a gray Peugeot 504 decorated with a tricolor pennant pulled up at the entrance to Anand Nagar that very afternoon. The appearance of the car caused such a sensation that Antoine Dumont had difficulty squeezing his way through the crowd. Turning up his trouser bottoms, he ventured into the muddy alleyway. On two or three occasions, discomforted by the smells, he was compelled to stop and wipe his face and neck. Despite his long experience, he had never before penetrated into quite such a setting. "This priest must be completely mad," he repeated to himself, as he tried to avoid the puddles. On reaching the shriveled body in the depths of the hut, he volunteered with an enthusiasm that was slightly forced.
4 'God day, Reverend! I bring you the respectful greetings of the French Republic. I am the French consul in Calcutta."
Stephan Kovalski opened his eyes with difficulty.
"To what do I owe the honor?" he inquired feebly.
"Didn't you know that a consul's primary duty is to look after the citizens under his jurisdiction?"
"I'm very grateful to you, Monsieur le Consul, but I have no need of your concern. I have enough friends here."
"It is precisely those friends who alerted me. Because your state of health requires..."
"Repatriation?" interrupted Kovalski, suddenly discovering a little energy. "Is that what you came here to suggest to me? Repatriation for medical reason? You really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble, Monsieur le Consul. I thank you for your kindness but beg you to save yourself unnecessary expense. The poor of the slums are not eligible for 'repatriation.'"
He let his head sink back and closed his eyes. The
sharpness of his tone had not eluded the diplomat. "This priest is a tough nut," he thought to himself.
"At least agree to let yourself be cared for in a good clinic." He sought after words that would convince. "Think of all that your life can give your friends. And of the vacuum your death would undoubtedly leave behind you."
"My life is in God's hands, Monsieur le Consul. It is for him to decide."
u Fm quite sure that it is because he has decided that you should be cured that I find myself here," argued the diplomat.
"Perhaps," agreed Koyalski, touched by the logic of this argument.
"In that case, I beg you to allow your friends to transport you to..."
"To a hospital for everyone, Monsieur le Consul, not to a clinic for the rich."
Dumont sensed that he was halfway there. A little patience and Kovalski would allow himself to be convinced altogether.
"The better the treatment you have, the sooner you'll be able to continue your activities."
"My desire is not to continue my activities, Monsieur le Consul, but to be sure of being able to look at the people around me without shame."
"I understand. But let me reassure you that not a single rupee will be taken from the poor to pay for your hospitalization. The consulate will cover any expenses."
Kovalski sighed; the conversation had exhausted him.
'Thank you, Monsieur le Consul, but it isn't a question of money. For me it's a matter of respecting a commitment freely undertaken. This illness is providential. I implore you not to insist."
A spasm shook the sick man. Antoine Dumont considered the inanimate body and wondered for a moment if he were dead. Then he noticed the irregular wheeze of the priest's breathing.
Outside in the alleyway, Ashish and Shanta, Bandona, Margareta, Aristotle John, Saladdin, old Surya, Mehboub, and numerous other neighbors were waiting anxiously. When the diplomat emerged, they all closed in.
"Well?" asked Margareta.
The Consul adjusted his bow tie.
"Only half a victory! A clinic is out of the question, but he's agreed to go to 4 a hospital for everybody.' That's his expression. I think we should respect his wishes."
As soon as the diplomat had left, Margareta loaded Kovalski onto a rickshaw and took him to the City Hospital, one of Bengal's capital's main medical centers. With its carefully manicured lawn, pool, fountain, and bougainvil-lea walk, the establishment offered rather fine surroundings. A red sign in the emergency wing pointed to a vast building, the doors and windows of which were nearly all broken. Margareta was tempted to ask the rickshaw puller to turn back. Even the most painful visions of the City of Joy had not prepared her for the shock of the sights that awaited her: bloodstained dressings strewn about the corridors, broken beds serving as trash cans, mattresses bursting open and crawling with bugs. Wherever you went you found yourself treading on some form of debris. Worst of all, however, were the people who haunted the place. The severely ill—suffering from encephalitis, coronary thrombosis, tetanus, typhoid, typhus, cholera, infected abscesses, people who had been injured, undergone amputations, or been burned—were lying all over, often on the bare floor.
Margareta eventually managed to dig out a bamboo stretcher on which she i
nstalled the unconscious Kovalski. Since no one came to examine him, she slipped a note into the hand of a male nurse to procure a bottle of serum and a syringe which she, herself, inserted into the patient's arm. Then she asked for anticholera drugs. Like so many other establishments, however, the City Hospital was short of medicines. The press frequently denounced the pilfering that went on in hospitals and kept flourishing numerous little pharmacies outside its walls.
"I'm thirsty..."
Kovalski opened his eyes to the nightmare world of this "hospital for everybody." There was neither a jug nor water at the patient's bedside. From time to time a boy came around with a waterskin. He charged fifty paisas a
cup (five U.S. cents). At the end of the corridor were the latrines. The door had been torn off and the drain was blocked. Excrement had spilled over and spread into the corridor, much to the delight of the flies.
Hundreds of sick people jostled with each other daily outside the doors to establishments such as this, in the hope of receiving some form of treatment, of obtaining a place in a bed—or on the floor—in order at least to be able to eat for a few days. There was the same crush almost everywhere. In some maternity wings it was perfectly possible to find three mothers and their babies bedded down on a single mattress, a situation which sometimes caused the asphyxia of newborn babies. Regular press campaigns condemned the negligence, corruption and theft that paralysed certain hospitals.
In the hospital where Stephan Kovalski was, a costly cobalt bomb had remained out of use for months because no one would take the responsibility for spending the sixty-eight hundred rupees necessary to have it repaired. Elsewhere a cardiac resuscitation unit was closed because of the lack of air-conditioning. In yet another hospital the two defibrillators and ten out of the twelve electrocardiograph machines had broken down, as had half the bedside monitors. Oxygen and gas cylinders for sterilization were lacking nearly everywhere. "The only piece of equipment that seems to function properly, but then again, only when there are no power cuts, is the apparatus for electric shock treatment in Gobra Mental Hospital," one newspaper reported. It had not been possible to open the new surgical wing at one large hospital simply because the Health Service had not yet approved the nomination of an elevator attendant. The lack of technicians and plates nearly everywhere meant that most patients had to wait four months for an X ray and weeks for any analysis. At a hospital near the Sealdah Station, eleven out of twelve ambulances were broken down or abandoned, with their roofs smashed in, their engines stolen, and their wheels stripped. In many operating units, the containers of forceps, scalpels, clips, and catgut were nearly empty, their contents having been stolen by staff members. The few instruments that actually remained were rarely sharp. The catgut was frequently of
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