The Circle of Reason

by Amitav Ghosh

  Balaram laughed and winced a moment later, as a spasm of pain shot out of his legs. Do you really think, he groaned, that there was anything you could do about it? You’re wrong if you do. Nothing you or I could have done would have made any difference. This happened because it had to happen. There’s a meaning in it – for me.

  Oh God, thought Gopal, he’s going to start lecturing again, in this state. Aloud he said: Balaram, don’t start making up one of your theories again. There’s no meaning in this. It was just an accident. You shouldn’t have run and you shouldn’t have jumped. They wouldn’t have done anything at all. It was just a moment’s foolishness – an accident. Now you should rest.

  Balaram pounced on the inconsistency: If it was just an accident, why did you say you shouldn’t have let it happen? Nobody can prevent accidents.

  Gopal, confused, said huffily: Don’t be silly, Balaram, and you shouldn’t argue in this state. It was an accident. Everybody says so. And accidents happen by chance. Chance doesn’t have a meaning – that’s why it’s chance.

  Balaram chuckled with delight and winced again. An event, he said, is what you make of it. You don’t really believe it was an accident, either. It had a meaning, and you know what the meaning was. You just said so. I shouldn’t have run. I should have stood my ground. I know that now, and next time I shall stand my ground, for Reason has nothing to fear.

  Balaram, Gopal said wearily, it was just an accident.

  It wasn’t any ordinary accident, Balaram said. And the proof of it is that it fell into the lap of the man who could make the best use of it. All right, you tell me, when that plane had a whole country, a whole state, a whole district, a whole village to choose from, why did it crash on Bhudeb Roy’s school, a few yards away from his wife? Why?

  Why? echoed Gopal.

  Because that plane was a gift from the sky.

  And from the very first hour Bhudeb Roy showed that he was not the man to throw away a gift.

  After he had led Parboti-debi back to the safety of their house, he went back to the school and took charge at once of the villagers’ haphazard fire-fighting efforts. Under his coolly efficient direction they soon reduced the flaming wreck to a sizzling, steaming heap of metal. But they could not prevent more than half the school from burning down. When the last embers were finally stamped out, only a few rooms, including Bhudeb Roy’s office, were left standing.

  Bhudeb Roy did not pause for an instant. He called for the tough young men who collected his rents from the shanties. At the same time he sent his sons out to recruit a few more. Within half an hour he had twenty willing and hungry young recruits. He armed them with stout wooden sticks and ordered them to herd the villagers out of the school grounds. When that was done he deployed them around the school and left them to guard it through the night.

  Next morning, after breakfasting, he went to the school and conducted a careful inspection to make sure that the wreck of the aeroplane had not been tampered with at night. Then he had his office desk carried out. He placed it carefully in the shade of a remnant of the school’s veranda. He wedged himself behind it, spread a cash register open and sent his sons out to let it be known that he was ready to take bids.

  Soon a crowd thronged into the school, and Bhudeb Roy was glad that he had had the foresight to organize a private army to keep things under control. Under the watchful eyes of his lean young men, the bids poured in, in a well-organized, disciplined kind of way.

  Bolai-da decided that the metal sheets of the fuselage would make a good roof for his expanding cycle and hardware shop. It would be a kind of advertisement as well: people would go out of their way to visit a shop which had an aeroplane for a roof. And, besides, at the time business was so good that he had money to waste. So he made an opening bid of five hundred rupees. But other people had the same idea. In the long run good steel or aluminium or whatever it was, polished and factory-made anyway, would be cheaper than corrugated iron. In the end Bolai-da outlasted the others – he was a little carried away by the sight of all that shining silvery metal and its cabalistic decorations of figures and numbers – but he had to pay almost a thousand rupees.

  Parts of the wings sold well, too: people bought them to put across ditches and canals as tidy little bridges. Bhudeb Roy managed to coax a total of five bridges out of those two wings. He sold them for four hundred rupees each. There were good bits of glass to dispose of after that, and rubber, and a whole heap of nuts and bolts.

  Bhudeb Roy did well that day. In the evening, after every little scrap had been sold, he plodded back to his house, happily rubbing the folds of flesh on the back of his neck. He called his sons into a room and passed around wads of notes. He smiled as he watched them sensuously running their fingers over the rustling paper. That’s right, he said, his tiny eyes bulging. You can’t ever know what money means unless you feel it.

  Later, he assembled his twenty or so young men outside his house and handed out bonuses. They had hardly dared expect so much money so soon. They burst into cheers – jug-jug-jiyo, Bhudeb-dada, jug-jug-jiyo – and ran off to their shacks and shanties to buy food for their families. That was perhaps the only false note in the whole day. They were gone by the time Bhudeb Roy had heaved himself up the stairs to his balcony so that he would be able to acknowledge their cheers properly. He found himself waving and bowing at an empty courtyard. But he didn’t let it spoil his mood; later he could teach them to do things properly. At that moment he had nothing but goodwill for the world. In his elation, he even told one of his sons to take a sackful of coconuts over to Balaram’s house.

  You see, Toru-debi told Balaram in the kitchen that night while they were eating their dinner, in his own way Bhudeb-babu really likes you. He respects you; he wants your friendship. He’s a nice man in his own way just like everybody else. If only you read a little less and knew the world a little more.

  Balaram frowned and would not look at her. She turned to Alu, who had finished and was sitting quietly on his piri licking his fingers. You tell him, she appealed. You tell him, because he won’t listen to me. Why can’t he just live and let live? Why can’t we just live in peace like everyone else?

  Balaram bit grimly into a fried fish-head. Toru-debi looked helplessly at him.

  After he had washed his hands Alu went back into the kitchen. Balaram had gone back to his study. Don’t worry, Alu said to Toru-debi. Nothing will happen. She bit her lip and shook her head, trying to keep her tears back. Something will happen, she said. I know it will; I’ve seen it in my dreams. But still I’ll do what I can to stop it. I’ll keep on trying as long as I can.

  So the next evening Toru-debi decided to go and meet Parboti-debi. It was a long time since she had left the house, and years since she had been to visit anyone.

  Sari chosen, face powdered, she picked her way down the path mumbling: First I’ll say, Parboti, where have you been? haven’t seen you, haven’t seen you for months. And all that. Then: Such nice coconuts … Then: What about some blouses? I’ll make you some blouses. Six.

  One of Bhudeb Roy’s sons, swinging on the gate, spotted her coming down the path in a white sari and peacock-green blouse, swinging a brown shopping-bag, her hair hanging down in knots, her face like a streaky white mask. He called out to his brothers and they all ran out to the gate and watched her, sniggering.

  They led her into a room that was crowded with cloth-covered sofas and pictures of Bhudeb Roy. She sat down, clutching her empty bag, and said: Parboti … ?

  She’s sick, said the oldest boy, fingering his moustache. She can’t come out.

  Toru-debi waited for ten minutes, surrounded by the boys, while a cup of tea and biscuits were fetched for her. What should I do? she thought, pulling at the knots in her hair. Go away? Stay? How’ll I tell Parboti? She drank her tea so fast it scalded her tongue, and rushed out. She stood under the balcony and shouted up: Parboti, I’ll make you six blouses. Tell Bhudeb-babu. It’s all right: six blouses.

  Walking w
orriedly down the path, swinging her bag, she thought: I’ve done what I can; it’s in Ma Kali’s hands now. Soon she was back listening to the reassuring drone of her sewing machine and the blouses were forgotten.

  A few days later the whole village learnt that Bhudeb Roy had been given several thousand rupees by an insurance company as compensation for the burnt parts of the school. Everybody was taken by surprise. Very few people had heard of insurance, and almost no one knew that buildings could be insured. Certainly nobody had known that the school buildings were insured. The question which flew around the banyan tree and the tea-shop and Bolai-da’s shop was when had Bhudeb Roy insured the building.

  Soon a curious crowd was paying daily court to Bhudeb Roy. He enjoyed it immensely but made sure his hired men were never too far away to prevent indiscipline. People brought him disputes to settle, questions to answer, and they heard many of his views on the world, but nobody had the courage to put the real question to him.

  In the end, by common consent it fell to Bolai-da, because ever since Bolai-da had accompanied Bhudeb Roy on his visit to his patch of toddy palms people had assumed that he had a special claim on Bhudeb Roy. They pushed Bolai-da forward and urged him on, but it took him a while to pick up the courage. Finally, one evening, with fingers prodding him in the small of his back, Bolai-da cleared his throat. By that time, the years had twisted Bolai-da’s face incurably sideways and curved it outwards, like a crescent moon. His lower jaw had moved an inch or so away from the upper, so that he had to speak out of a gap at the corner of his mouth. Bhudeb-babu, he said, squinting with concentration, tell me, when exactly did you insure the school?

  Bhudeb Roy, chewing slowly on a plug of tobacco, said: Exactly fifteen days before the crash.

  His electrified audience gasped. All those years to do it in, or not to do it in, and he had done it fifteen days before the crash.

  Bolai-da swallowed and sucked his teeth. Bhudeb-babu, he said, tell us, did you know?

  Bhudeb Roy did not answer. He looked away, into the far distance, and his bulging jaw chewed steadily sideways, while a smile slowly worked its way across it.

  That night they went back to Bolai-da’s shop in awestruck silence. Was it possible? No, it couldn’t be. Even Bhudeb Roy couldn’t have shot down a plane all by himself. But, then, said Bolai-da wagging his head, it was certainly more than mere coincidence.

  The very next day, with his insurance money in his pocket, Bhudeb Roy hired a truck and took his sons and his twenty young men to Naboganj. He bought them T-shirts and a few knuckledusters and handed out another bonus. On its way back the truck scattered a triumphant cloud of dust over the village, while Bhudeb Roy sat massively enthroned on it, surrounded by his sons and the young men, acknowledging their cheers: jug-jug-jiyo, Bhudeb-dada, jug-jug-jiyo.

  All the other hungry young men, sitting under the banyan tree thinking of ways to finance cycle-rickshaws, were lashed by envy when they saw the bright T-shirts flash by. They cursed the fate which had singled out their onetime friends while leaving them stranded under the banyan tree, as hungry as ever. That night they begged Bolai-da: You talk to Bhudeb-babu. He listens to you. Tell him he needs some more people. Bolai-da blew through the corner of his mouth and shook his head: No, no, how can I? And, besides, why me? But of course he was flattered that they had chosen him to be their spokesman, and it did not take them very much longer to persuade him to lead them to Bhudeb Roy’s house.

  So, in a procession, with flaming torches, they marched down the lanes, shouting: jug-jug-jiyo, Bhudeb-dada, jug-jug-jiyo. The twenty young men, who were lounging on Bhudeb Roy’s veranda, heard them when they turned into the red-dust path which led to the house. They were not slow to recognize a threat. Snatching up their sticks and their knuckledusters, they rushed out of the house, like wolves swarming to defend a kill. Bhudeb Roy’s sons, who lacked their fine streamlining, floundered after them, panting.

  Shatup goddam fool-fuckers, waking Master, shut your traps and all this hungama-business, stinky-smelly goondas and chhokra-boys.

  But razor blades and sticks and cycle chains appeared magically in Bolai-da’s followers’ hands, too. So, in a barrage of shouts and insults, the two groups held off for a moment and each managed to push their leaders in front, while somehow conveying the impression that they were actually trying to hold them back.

  Bolai-da stepped into the breach. He twisted his face haughtily sideways and out of the corner of his mouth he whistled: We want nothing to do with the likes of you. We want to meet Bhudeb-babu.

  Bhudeb Roy heard him, for the commotion had drawn him out into the garden. Let them come in, he roared. I’ll hear them.

  The twenty young men drew back, with extreme misgiving. They couldn’t help doling out a few pinches to the stragglers and pulling a bit of hair. Bhudeb Roy rolled his little eyes when he saw the crowd and growled: What is it now, Bolai? Bolai-da smiled his most ingratiating smile and said: Bhudeb-babu, these young fellows want some work, too. They’re as good as the others. Why not hire them, too?

  Bhudeb Roy rolled his eyes over the ragged young men and smiled. He put his arm across Bolai-da’s shoulders and led him aside. You see, Bolai, he whispered in a whisper which resounded around the garden, what this village needs is a kick in the arse, something to get it moving. I’ve tried kindness and persuasion but it doesn’t work. There’s something wrong with the basic character of the people. They’re illiterate like you, not educated like me. They need a kick in the arse. But, then, someone has to do the kicking and someone has to provide the arse. If everyone was kicking, do you see what I mean, what would become of the arse? You understand me?

  Bolai-da nodded, thinking hard. But then he said: Bhudeb-babu, can’t you give them something to do? How will they live? They need work, too.

  Bhudeb Roy thought for a moment and rubbed his huge flat forehead. His fingers touched on a bump and suddenly a smile of dawning revelation spread itself across his jaw. Why, he said, let them make straight lines. Straight lines are the best way of moving ahead, the shortest distance between two points. You tell them that: the need of the hour is straight lines.

  The twenty young men, smiling with sly satisfaction, ushered Bolai-da and the others out of the garden.

  It was sometime that week that Balaram first noticed the organ of Order sprouting obscenely on Bhudeb Roy’s eyebrows.

  About ten days later two jeeps full of uniformed men were spotted turning into the dust track which led off the main road to the village. The village had emptied long before they reached the banyan tree. The blue-uniforms didn’t seem to notice. The jeeps drove straight to the school and the uniformed men fanned out over the yard, inspecting the pit the crash had made and picking up stray nuts and bolts and shavings of metal. Then the jeeps roared and wheeled, and drove straight to Bhudeb Roy’s house.

  Nobody ever really learnt what happened there, but over the next two days the blue-uniforms went unerringly to the shops with sheet-metal roofs, the canals bridged by reinforced steel, the rickshaws decorated with shiny bolts, and recovered every last bit of scrap the plane had deposited in the village. All that anyone knew was that when the jeeps drove out ranks of blue-uniformed arms appeared in the windows waving cordially to Bhudeb Roy, and he waved back, smiling happily.

  Naturally Bolai-da was chosen to lead the delegation of villagers who marched to Bhudeb Roy’s house to ask for their money back. They were stopped at the gates by the twenty young men and Bolai-da was singled out and led into the house. Bhudeb Roy met him in a dark empty room. His little eyes in their bulging sockets were suddenly very menacing. What do you want? he spat at Bolai-da.

  Well, that is to say, Bhudeb-babu, Bolai-da managed to stutter, we were just wondering, since we paid you all that money for those bits of the plane, and since they’ve been taken back now, shouldn’t we – er – perhaps, get our money back? No one richer, no one poorer, all quits.

  Bhudeb Roy’s eyebrows shot forward. His jaws opened as though
they would have liked to fasten on Bolai-da’s scrawny neck. Be grateful, he roared, that you’re not in gaol for being found in possession of government property. Do you know who you owe it to? Me. Me. Me. Should I charge you lawyer’s fees? You’ll end up even poorer. If you know what’s good for you, you and all your bad-element friends will start working on straight lines instead of hanging around the banyan tree, doing nothing but rearing your heads and thinking anti-social thoughts.

  Bolai-da was led out in a hurry by one of the young men. The other young men began to rattle their sticks and shine their knuckledusters, and the whole delegation was soon hurrying down the lane jaldi-toot-sweet.

  Nobody ever talked of getting their money back again. After that, people said, not a bird chirruped in Lalpukur but with Bhudeb Roy’s permission, and under the supervision of his twenty young men.

  And then, a couple of months later, someone spotted Parboti-debi, who had disappeared for a while, on the veranda of their house. She was unmistakably pregnant.

  Calendars of every sort and variety, sweetshop and government-issue, Bikrami, Hegiraic and Gregorian, rustled under the banyan tree that night. The conclusions of the Bikrami were supported by the Hegiraic and were not contradicted by the Gregorian. But still people couldn’t believe it. They woke the oldest midwife in the village and put the problem to her. She had no doubts, either.

  The plane had conceived the child. There could be no other conclusion. Nobody could believe Bhudeb Roy capable of fathering another child (though gossip had it that hardly a night passed without his trying). It had to be the plane. Or at any rate it had happened on the night of the crash, which was the same thing. The heavens had intervened. The plane was a gigantic chrome-plated penis thrown down by the skies to Bhudeb Roy’s wife; a sort of metallic, heavenly starch, sent to stiffen Bhudeb Roy’s ageing member.

  Bolai-da led another awestruck delegation to Bhudeb Roy. Be generous, Bhudeb-babu, he pleaded. Allow her to come out of her seclusion. After all, if she has the gift, shouldn’t she share it with the rest of the village? The barren women of the village would worship her, and you, if she would only agree just to touch them. Perhaps you could even charge a fee.