The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  Middle Parting, laughing, dusted his hands: All right, you can play Mother to him now. Take him to see C. V. Raman. But be careful. Don’t leave him outside the laboratory. They might pour him into a test-tube. He threw his arms around his friends’ shoulders and they went away, still shaking with laughter.

  Balaram stooped and spread the few shreds of cloth left to him carefully over his drawers. Gopal turned to him eagerly: C. V. Raman? Are you interested in C. V. Raman’s work? Balaram did not answer. He barely heard Gopal. He was too angry and confused.

  But when at last his head cleared, and he understood Gopal’s question and sensed his elation, he knew he had a friend.

  Later that day, Gopal came to fetch Balaram to take him out for a cup of tea. With him was another new student, a slight, bespectacled, shy boy from Lucknow whose two prominent front teeth had already tagged him with the name of Dantu. They went down the road to Puntiram’s sweetshop. Puntiram’s was not then the neon-and-plastic marvel it is now: it was a small place, a little tumbledown, but quiet. A good place to talk.

  They ate rosogollas, sweet and spongy as only Puntiram’s could make them, and drank rich milky tea, and Gopal told them about a society he and a few others in the Eden Hindu Hostel had recently founded. Formally it was known as the Society for the Dissemination of Science and Rationalism among the People of Hindoostan, but usually they simply called themselves the Rationalists.

  Balaram and Dantu pushed their dues – eight annas each – across the table the moment they had finished their tea.

  Later, Gopal and Balaram were often to argue about the circumstances of their meeting. Gopal claimed that it was an accident of sorts, a mere lucky chance. Balaram argued that it could not have been. It was too apt. They would have met anyway, for the hostel was divided into five wards and Balaram and Gopal happened to be in the same ward. But no chance encounter would have been able to capture the appropriateness of their first meeting. Wasn’t the Rationalists’ motto ‘Reason rescues Man from Barbarity’?

  A few days later Gopal lent Balaram a book he had recently bought at Chakerbutty & Sons in College Street. It was a copy of Mrs Devonshire’s translation of René Vallery-Radot’s Life of Pasteur.

  He was to regret lending Balaram that book. A year or so later he could not have said whether he was more bewildered or hurt when the very Balaram he had rescued from barbarity, his closest friend, turned his own book, bought with his own carefully saved money, into a weapon against him.

  That year Gopal was elected president of the Rationalists. He called a meeting soon after the election. It was an important meeting, for a Science Association had recently been founded in the hostel and many of the Rationalists had been tempted to change their membership. Gopal was anxious to meet the threat head-on.

  The difference, Gopal told the Rationalists, between the Science Association and their own society was that they did not consider science alone, something people pursued in the seclusion of laboratories, important in itself. He himself was studying not science but English literature. Their aim was the application of rational principles to everything around them – to their own lives, to society, to religion, to history. It didn’t matter what. That was what made the Rationalists unique.

  It was to that task – of applying rationalism to everything around them – that the society now had to turn. And for that he had a plan.

  As a boy, Gopal went on, he had been made to read through some of the Sanskrit scriptures with his father. Later, when he began to read about science, something – he didn’t know what – had troubled him. Now that he had read much more, he had an idea of what it was: there could no longer be any doubt that there were certain very curious parallelisms between the ideas of the ancient Hindu sages and modern science. If that was true, and many very learned authorities believed it to be so, then it was definite proof that over the centuries those ancient and completely rational ideas had been perverted by scheming priests and brahmins to further their own interests. It was urgently necessary, therefore, that the society make known to the masses of Hindoostan how they were daily deceived and cheated by the self-styled purveyors of religion.

  For example, it was certain that the pandits and brahmins had distorted the ancient Hindu idea of God, the Brahma, into their thousands of deities and idols, so that they could make money quicker. Just as a shopkeeper might open new counters, so each new god was a steady new source of income for the priests. As for the real Brahma, he was without attributes, without form, nothing but an essence, in everything and in nothing.

  In fact, Gopal said in a sibilant whisper, the Brahma is nothing but the Atom.

  Gopal stopped there and looked at his enthralled audience. There were a few inadvertent claps. He squashed them with a raised hand. And so, too, he said, it has been proved beyond all doubt that the Universal Egg of Hindu mythology is nothing but a kind of Cosmic Neutron.

  He was met with a storm of cheers and claps. He smiled, luxuriating in the applause. When it had faded away, he began again: If we are to disseminate the truth we must begin here, in our own society. I propose, therefore, that we begin all our meetings hereafter with salutations and prayers to the Cosmic Atom.

  There were nods of agreement all around the room. Then Balaram stood up. But you know, he said, atoms and suchlike are old-fashioned now. Ever since Professor Satyen Bose published his famous paper, all the elementary particles which obey his statistics have been renamed Bosons. Should we not, then, salute the Cosmic Boson instead?

  There was a murmur of approval. Gopal nodded, a little apprehensively. Yes, he said, it’s only right that we keep up with the times.

  But, said Balaram, smiling slyly, as I’m sure you’re well aware, all other particles obey Enrico Fermi’s statistics and are known as Fermions. So shouldn’t we, then, salute the Cosmic Fermion as well?

  A hubbub of consternation eddied through the room. Only Dantu laughed and he was quickly quelled by a roomful of frowns. Everyone there had long since boycotted British-made and foreign goods, and many had publicly burnt every scrap of Lancashire cloth in their houses. Bosons, made in Calcutta, they could applaud; but salutations to Italian particles?

  No, no, said Gopal. We can’t salute everything. I think we’d better keep to Bosons. Now, sit down, Balaram.

  Balaram sat down.

  Their next two meetings began with the chant: Hail to thee, O Cosmic Boson. Gopal spent half of one meeting exhorting them to begin their letters home with Hail, Cosmic Boson instead of the sacred syllable Om. Then they went through the epics and tried to find rational explanations for various magical events, objects and creatures. It was decided, for example, that the sudarshan-chakra, the legendary wheel of fire, was actually an example of ancient fireworks, and Gopal was applauded for his ingeniously down-to-earth suggestion that the mythical clawed bird of the Ramayana, Jatayu, was no early phantasm but merely one of the last surviving pterodactyls.

  Balaram said nothing at either meeting. He sat in a corner with Dantu and fidgeted.

  At the next meeting Gopal urged the Rationalists to turn their minds to the business of finding a rational substitute for the superstitious incantations which Brahmins chanted at weddings. While others eagerly offered suggestions, Balaram’s fidgeting grew till he was twisting and turning on his mat. Then Dantu prodded him sharply in the ribs and whispered: Go on; tell them.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Balaram jumped to his feet. What does it matter? he shouted. What does it matter?

  Gopal looked at him dumbfounded: What do you mean?

  I mean what does it matter what the Brahmins say and the rishis say and the myths say? What does it have to do with science or reason or the masses of Hindoostan? What good will it do anyone if the masses start saying Hail, Cosmic Boson instead of He Bhagoban? Will it cure them of disease? Will it fill their stomachs? Will it get the British out of here?

  Gopal said: Balaram, that’s enough. Remember where you are. Don’t shout; you’re not in your right mi
nd.

  In astonishment Balaram exclaimed: I’m not in my right mind?

  Gopal cast up his hands: All right, then, tell us what you would like us to do.

  Balaram’s slim face narrowed with intensity. He swept his hair from his eyes and looked straight at Gopal. It’s not what I want to do, he said. It’s how. This is nothing. Just talk. Empty talk. That’s what Pasteur would have called it. Do you remember Pasteur? Do you remember the book you gave me – you, yourself?

  Soundlessly Gopal sank on to a mat.

  Do you remember how Pasteur first came to science? It wasn’t by thinking about the Cosmic Atom. It was because his father was a poor tanner. Do you remember why he left his promising studies in crystallography? It was because the brewers of France came to him and said: What makes our beer rot? It was that question, asked by simple people, which led to the discovery of what he called the ‘infinitesimally small’ – the Germ, in other words.

  Has anything changed the world as much as the discovery of the germ? Has there ever been a greater break in history than the moment when men were unburdened of their responsibility for their bodies and all disease was assigned to the treachery of the elements?

  And how did it come about? Not through cogitations about the cosmic, but as an answer to the everyday problems of simple people.

  Who did the silk farmers of Europe go to when disease struck their silkworms and whole provinces lay devastated and groaning in misery? Who did they go to with their children hungry at their breasts and their livelihood wasting in their fields? Who but Pasteur? They went to him and they said: Save us. And when he saw their wretchedness not all the powers on the earth could have kept him from answering.

  That is why the world still has silk.

  What was it that led him to struggle for years, at the risk of his own life, to rid the world of hydrophobia?

  Nothing but the everyday suffering of helpless children and their mothers. It was that which sustained him when all the world laughed and said: Pasteur is mad, bitten by his dogs.

  Why? Why did he do it? What drove him?

  It wasn’t talk of reason, it wasn’t the universal atom. It was passion; a passion which sprang from the simple and the everyday. A passion for the future, not the past. It was that which made him the greatest man of his time, for it is that passion which makes men great.

  Gopal cleared his throat uneasily. All right, Balaram, he said. But what can we do? We’re not scientists. We can’t find cures for things.

  Balaram paused. Slowly he said: I don’t know. How can I say? All I know is that this is pointless. If all these things we talk about – reason, science and all the rest – are to mean anything, they must have the power to move people. Who can be moved by the Cosmic Boson? It is the everyday, the mundane things that happen in real life which move people. If we want to do anything at all, that is what we must think about. And we have to start here, in Presidency College, in the Hindu Hostel, with our fellow-students. If we can’t make them change their lives, if we can’t make them see Reason, what can we ever have to say to the masses of Hindoostan?

  He stopped there and started as though he had only then noticed that everyone in the room was staring at him. He looked around once, in confusion, and then he ran from the room. Dantu followed him out.

  As he watched Balaram go, Gopal had a premonition: a premonition of the disaster he would call upon himself and all of them, if ever he was allowed to take charge of the society. He decided then, with an uncharacteristic determination, that he would do everything in his power to keep that from happening.

  After that meeting Gopal’s standing among the Rationalists suffered greatly while Balaram’s, with Dantu’s quiet help, grew. Despite that, through the rest of that year Gopal struggled with all his resources to fight Balaram’s influence in the society. He succeeded, though narrowly, and the Rationalists spent that year safely rewriting parts of the great epics. But Gopal had only that year left in college. At the end of it he was to leave to study law.

  Through that year, perhaps because of their clashes over the future of the Rationalists, their friendship grew stronger than ever. The day Gopal was to leave the hostel, Balaram helped him tie up his luggage. Gopal could see that Balaram was no less saddened than he was. But he saw, too, that Balaram was charged with the energy of a new-found freedom, and he was filled with a terrible foreboding.

  But there was no longer anything he could do to save Balaram from himself.

  Four decades later, long after the vindication of that first premonition, Gopal was to know that same foreboding again.

  One afternoon, about three years after Toru-debi sent Balaram’s library up in flames, Gopal was busy with a client in his chambers at the High Court, when his peon interrupted to tell him that Balaram had arrived. Gopal was surprised, for it was not a Sunday, and Balaram rarely came to Calcutta on weekdays. But Gopal had to appear in court for his client that afternoon, so he told his peon to ask Balaram to wait in a room outside.

  After the hearing Gopal came back to his chambers pleased with himself, for the judge had complimented him on his line of argument. He found Balaram pacing his chambers, frowning. Gopal dusted his hands briskly and lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. So, Balaram, he said, how did you spend the afternoon?

  Does it matter? Balaram snapped.

  Gopal paused. Balaram irritable was a matter of some surprise; it was rarely that he noticed the everyday vexations which irritate the rest of the world. So Gopal sent his peon to fetch some tea and Circus biscuits, and droned comfortably on about his client and his case. Balaram listened with evident impatience, pulling books out at random from the bookshelves.

  Gopal stopped when he judged it right, and said: What’s the matter, Balaram?

  I’m worried about Alu, said Balaram, running his fingers through his hair. It’s probably the asterion growing together with the sagittal suture. A disastrous combination: Firmness plus Combativeness. It could only spell obstinacy.

  The boy had stopped going to school altogether. He still read when he could find books, and his talent for languages had grown if anything, but when it came to school the boy seemed quite determined. He never said anything – he simply wouldn’t go. Everybody had talked to him and argued with him, but it made no difference. He never said a word.

  He seemed to have made up his mind, and he had a determination unusual in a fourteen-year-old. It was that asterion. And there was no known remedy for it. But there had to be. There had to be an answer.

  What does he do, then, Gopal asked, when he’s not at school?

  Nobody’s sure, Balaram answered. But people say he spends most of his time in Shombhu Debnath’s huts.

  Shombhu Debnath? said Gopal. Who’s that?

  Oh, said Balaram, don’t you know him? He has a remarkable glabella and frontal sinuses. I haven’t examined him, and now I suppose I never will, but even from a distance anyone can tell. It’s not just his glabella. The orbital edges over the trochleas are some of the best I’ve ever seen. It’s unusual to come across so many Perceptive Faculties in one specimen: you know – Individuality, Size, Colour. He has an interesting forehead, too, and good temples. You’d probably like it – plenty of Wit, Hope, Wonder and Poesy.

  Yes, said Gopal, but who is he, what does he do?

  He’s a weaver, Balaram said absently. He settled in Lalpukur years ago. You’ve probably seen his daughter Maya. She works in our house in the mornings. He has a son, too, called Rakhal. He’s taught him weaving, too.

  What does Alu do in a weaver’s huts? Gopal asked astonished.

  I don’t know. Watches them weave perhaps.

  Well, said Gopal, you must explain to Alu that if he doesn’t go to school he’ll never be able to get a job.

  What? Balaram looked at him in stunned amazement. How could I say that? It would be wrong; it would be immoral. Children go to school for their first glimpse into the life of the mind. Not for jobs. If I thought that my teaching is
nothing but a means of finding jobs, I’d stop teaching tomorrow.

  Gopal looked at him wearily. Balaram, he said, as you grow older, you grow more foolish. Why do you think children are sent to school?

  Balaram sank on to a chair, cupped his face in his hands and stared at Gopal.

  Gopal decided that Balaram needed a diversion. So he suggested that they go to see a film. That year, to Gopal’s surprise, Balaram had developed an enormous fondness for Hindi films. He saw one, sometimes two whenever he came to Calcutta. He often went to Naboganj, near Lalpukur, to see films, sometimes taking Alu with him. Gopal was hard put to understand his new passion. After suffering through a few at Balaram’s insistence, he had decided that he could stomach no more. But that evening he changed his mind; even three hours of tedium would be better than playing midwife to Balaram’s worries.

  So he sent his peon home to tell his wife that he would be late and they caught a taxi to the Menoka, near the Lakes. The film was Aradhana. The queue for tickets stretched for more than half a mile. They had to buy tickets at ten times the rate, from a tout.

  When they came out of the hall three hours later Balaram was smiling crookedly, his eyes mistily damp. But now it was Gopal who was irritated, resentful of his three wasted hours. He followed Balaram as he wandered to a bench in the park by the Lakes.

  How can you bear these noisy melodramas? he burst forth at Balaram’s back in annoyance.

  Balaram turned to him angrily: Noisy melodramas?

  So much predictable rubbish, said Gopal. No story, no plot, just hours of weeping and breast-beating. There’s nothing remotely real even about the way they talk. It’s just speeches all the time.