by Amitav Ghosh
But this time he is not pushing his way out, not racing down the corridor with Middle Parting’s whoops behind him, his legs are not over the balustrade of the balcony, the ground is not rushing up to meet him. No, not this time.
Balaram stood erect and tall and looked straight into Shombhu Debnath’s streaming eyes. No, I cannot go, he said, rejoicing in the strength of his voice. Nobody shall move me from here. Here I stand, and here I shall stay.
Despite his tears, Shombhu Debnath could not stifle a chuckle. Stand on what, Balaram-babu?
Once Shombhu Debnath was on his way, Maya, painfully dry-eyed, ran out of the house, and together she and Alu watched him leading Parboti-debi and the little girl into the rice fields on the far side of the bamboo forest. Soon they were lost in a clump of coconut palms. Rakhal was looking angrily in the other direction and Balaram was crouched over an oil-drum, staring down the path.
Soon after, the gates opened and a car drove out, turned right and speeded away, sending up two plumes of dust. They could not be sure whether Bhudeb Roy was in the car: Rakhal said he was, but Alu had not seen him. After that the house was quiet. Rakhal grew restive. They’ll be back soon, he said, rubbing his hands restlessly, and then the real fight will start. But the sun climbed higher in the sky, the oil-drums began to radiate waves of heat, and the house was still quiet. Once Rakhal skirted through the rice fields, crouching low, until he could look through the wrought-iron gates. He saw four men sitting under the mango tree in the garden and smoking, but nothing else. Back in the circle of drums, he spat: Dush-shala; I should have got them with the bomb the first time.
Why didn’t you? said Alu. Rakhal looked at him in surprise: What? Get them with a bomb and spoil it all for myself? No, I want to get them when they’re really close; when I can pick out the motherfuckers who’re wearing the clothes they stole from me. I’ll break their bones individually, with my own hands, and then I’ll wrap them up in those very shirts, those very trousers, and throw them back over the garden wall. Here, look: this’ll break more bones than they’ve got. He pulled a bicycle chain, dotted with rust, out of his pocket and handed it to Alu.
Maya snatched it away, crying: For God’s sake, dada … But Rakhal looked at her so fiercely that she handed it back to him. Yes, kill us all, she said, we’re all weapons – and went back to the house.
At midday, with the sun overhead, the oil-drums began to blast heat, like a furnace. Even Balaram, though he never took his eyes off Bhudeb Roy’s house, drew back from the drums. Rakhal and Alu decided that they had to move into the house at least until the sun grew a little less fierce. Balaram protested feebly, but Rakhal was not in a mood for argument, and he threatened to carry him if he wouldn’t go of his own accord. So they all went, carrying Balaram’s squirt-guns and two buckets of carbolic. They went straight up to the room above the front door, so that they would be able to keep a watch on the path outside and Bhudeb Roy’s house.
The day wore on and there was still no sign of any activity in Bhudeb Roy’s house. Alu sensed that the village was unnaturally quiet: all day long he had not seen a single person out in the fields. It’s as though they’re waiting, he said to Rakhal; but Rakhal only laughed. In the afternoon, soon after Alu, Maya and Rakhal had eaten a quick meal of rice and fried potatoes, Nonder-ma disappeared. Where’d she go? Rakhal asked Maya. She said she was going out for a minute to Bolai-da’s to buy something, Maya said, and then … Rakhal shrugged, and Maya busied herself cooking their dinner.
At sunset Rakhal came to a decision. They’re going to come at night, he told Alu. That’s why they’re doing nothing now. That circle of drums isn’t going to be of any use now; if they come at night, they’ll get at the house first, perhaps from the back. We’ve got to move everything into the house. We’ll roll the drums here and stand them up before the front door. You can do that. But, first, we’ll have to get Maya and Toru-mashi out of the house.
How? said Alu doubtfully.
I’ll talk to Maya, said Rakhal, but his face was eloquent of uncertainty. They both climbed down to the courtyard, and Rakhal went to the kitchen. They both came out again soon, Rakhal crestfallen, Maya calmly wiping her hands on her sari. Alu looked from one to the other: So? If I leave, Maya said, where will I go? All right, all right, said Rakhal, but now go and talk to Toru-mashi. Maya nodded, and they watched her go to Toru-debi’s room, and hesitantly push the door open.
She came hurtling out a moment later. She threw the scissors at me, Maya gasped. She says the machine is about to save us: she’s finished four and she’s halfway through the fifth.
Didn’t you tell her, Alu said, that Parboti-debi … ?
If you want to tell her anything, you can go and talk to her yourself, said Maya, and turning her back on them she went straight to the kitchen. Rakhal shrugged.
They went out to the circle of oil-drums, and Rakhal put Alu to work at moving the drums. It was a pointless and exhausting job, for the drums were all half-full of carbolic solution, and very heavy. Alu could only move them by levering them over, and rolling them along the ground, and that meant spilling most of the carbolic solution. But Rakhal insisted that it had to be done. In the meanwhile, with minute, painstaking care, Rakhal wrapped the contents of the tarpaulin-covered heap in jute sacks and carried them into the courtyard. He would not let Alu touch them. When he had finished, the stack of sacks seemed even larger to him than it had outside. But Rakhal was worried. It won’t be enough, he said, examining it. I’ll have to go and get some more. You stay here and don’t go out of the house. I’ll be back in ten minutes.
He ran out of the house, in the direction of their huts. He was back again soon, with a plastic sack over his shoulder. When he had added the sack to the others, the stack seemed huge to Alu. But Rakhal shook his head, dissatisfied. I don’t know if it’ll be enough, he said, but it’s too late now …
Soon after the last glow of twilight had faded away, they heard the whine of engines in the distance. A minute later Balaram shouted down: They’ve come, they’ve come. Alu raced up the ladder with Rakhal. Balaram was rigid in front of the window, pointing out, and for a moment his look of blissful, rapturous relief stopped Alu dead.
Looking out, they could see three jeeps at Bhudeb Roy’s gate, and they counted more than a dozen shadowy figures as they climbed out. Then three powerful searchlight beams simultaneously flared out of the jeeps’ hoods, blinding them. Rakhal caught Alu’s shoulder and led him to the ladder. He was perfectly calm and unhurried but the scar was shining brilliantly on his cheek.
There are more of them than I thought, he said as they climbed down the ladder. I’m not sure we have enough to deal with them in the sacks. And now it’ll be impossible to meet them hand-to-hand.
Alu caught a glimpse of Toru-debi, squatting in a corner of the courtyard with her head in her hands. But Rakhal had his back to her, and he went on urgently: You’ll have to do something. I can’t leave the house now. You remember the old loom-shed in our courtyard? The pits are covered with palm leaves and earth now, but you just have to pull and the palm leaves will come away. You’ll find a sack in the pit; it’s a sort of plastic, the kind you get fertilizers and insecticides in. Pick it up, but very, very carefully – do you understand? very very carefully – and bring it here. Don’t open it, don’t look into it, don’t shake it, don’t drop it. Just bring it here. And run as fast as you can. They’ll surround the house soon, and you won’t be able to get back after that.
It’s no use.
They both spun around. Toru-debi, watching them from her corner, let slip a bitter, mocking little laugh. It’s no use, she said again. Her hair hung around her face in damp, tangled knots; her sari had slipped off her shoulders, and her blouse had come undone. Her right hand was resting on her sewing machine beside her.
Nothing’s any use now, she muttered. It’s the end. Just one blouse left to go and he’s died. She ran her hand over the machine’s shining wheel and pulled, with all her strength. The
wheel was absolutely rigid. She smiled at them: You see; he’s haunted. There’s something in him.
Suddenly her face lit up, as though something had occurred to her. She tore her blouse away, and her heavy breasts spilled out. She lifted the black, sinuously curved machine off its wooden base and settled it on her lap, clucking to herself.
Maya darted forward and caught her hands. Toru-debi looked up shamefacedly, straight at Alu. I thought it was you, she said confusedly. Aren’t you going to do something? Then all at once her naked breasts and shoulders collapsed as though an immense weight had been lowered on to them. What’s the use? she said. It’s the end.
Alu felt his throat go dry as he looked at the terrible incandescent desolation in her eyes. Then Rakhal was shaking him, whispering: Run, there’s no time to lose. And Maya was beside him, holding his hand: Yes, go. I’ll look after her; don’t worry.
In a daze, Alu found his slippers and went to the back door. But before he could slip out Toru-debi shouted again: Alu, come here. For one minute; only one.
Slowly Alu went back to her. She stood up and put the sewing machine in his arms. Throw it into the pond, she said. It’s dead. She leant forward and searched his eyes. But you’ll get me another, Alu my bit of gold, won’t you? she said, her voice full of trust. A better one?
Alu turned and ran blindly out of the door. Listen! he heard Maya shouting after him. He turned and saw her, framed in the doorway, smoothing back her thick black hair, biting her lip in worry. Come back soon, he heard her shout, and then he was running again, blindly, hardly noticing the weight of the sewing machine in his arms.
Before he could reach the forest, he heard footsteps and stopped, alert again. Then he recognized a familiar bandy-legged figure racing towards him. Kahan? Where are you going? Bolai-da shouted, panting. He spoke in Hindi, as he always had to Alu, ever since he taught him the language. Where? What’s happening? Nonder-ma said …
Then he noticed the sewing machine and his eyes widened. Alu put the sewing machine into his arms. There, he said, look after that. I’ll take it back from you some day. And don’t go to the house.
And then he was running again, flying down the path, grateful that he knew it so well, that the darkness made no difference. One of his slippers tore and he kicked it off in mid-step, without checking. He was almost there, no further than a few yards, when a microphone boomed behind him: This is a warning to you; this is a warning. Come out peacefully.
Alu stopped and turned towards the house. The bamboo thickets where the house lay were silhouetted against a curtain of metallic light. He forgot all about the loom, all about Rakhal’s instructions, and began to run towards the house. The microphone boomed again: This is a warning, this is the last warning to you. Then, with a high whistle, a brilliant sunburst of light arced into the sky and the whole forest shimmered in the eerie silver glow. He saw it reach its zenith and curve downwards, and fall out of his sight, behind the bamboo. There was a moment of absolute stillness when it struck him that the light must have fallen very near the house. And then the earth shook and the air seemed to come alive and hit him with walls of force, and when he opened his eyes again exactly where the house ought to have been there were orange flames shooting into the sky.
Alu began to run again. His whole mind went blank, except for the rhythm of his pounding feet. He saw a figure standing on the path ahead of him, but the familiar bandy legs meant no more than an obstacle blocking his way, and instinctively he turned his shoulder and threw himself at it. But Bolai-da sidestepped deftly and next moment he had Alu pinned to his chest in a wrestler’s lock. What d’you want to go back to the house for? he said as Alu struggled against his arms. There’s nobody there any more but the police buggers. There’s nothing for you to do there. God’s cremated them all.
Alu twisted and clawed at his arm, trying to break the lock. Exasperated, Bolai-da pulled one of his hands loose and hit him hard across the cheek, and Alu slumped over. Bolai-da put a shoulder under one of his arms and half-carried, half-dragged him into the forest. God, he mumbled, you should have seen that flare … right over, straight into the courtyard, and the whole place – up like a bomb. They’ll be all around it now, looking for you. But they’re not going to get you. I named you and I’ll see you safe somewhere …
Alu, stumbling along beside him, inert and uncomprehending, could only see the flames of the known world licking the skies.
Chapter Eight
Going West
Until very recently it used to take three days to travel to Mahé from Calcutta by train (it takes a little less now because of the New Bongaigaon Express). It takes so long because Mahé is at the other end of the subcontinent – on the west coast, only a few hundred miles north of the southernmost tip of the Peninsula.
The older part of Mahé town is on a knoll, overlooking the sluggish green Mahé river which flows down from the thickly forested Idikki hills to the east. The town and its tiny hinterland are surrounded by Kerala, and at first sight it looks like any other coastal Malabar town. But actually Mahé is not a part of Kerala. It owes this, like the church with its slate-topped steeple which juts above the town, to the fact that it was once a French colony – a tiny island of Gallic domination in a sea of British-occupied territory.
The sea which breaks on Mahé’s beaches is the Arabian Sea and it washes in wealth. Mahé has the air of a boom town, but on a modest, muted scale, for it is actually a very small and inconspicuous place. Those who have heard the name usually remember it only indistinctly or for an examination, and very few know where to find it on a map.
On the morning of the third day of his journey, when he was only a few hours away from Mahé, Jyoti Das was very bored and very restless. He knew he ought not to be, for the landscape he had woken up to that morning was strikingly beautiful, especially after – to give things their proper names – the desert he had shut his eyes on in Tamil Nadu the night before. It was like waking up in an extravagant garden. Everything was green; there were greens of so many shades whirling past his window – the new-leaf green of banana trees, the deep emerald of rice, the feathery darkness of coconut palms. There seemed to be no exposed surface, no bit of rock, no sand, nothing that was not draped in green. The soil seemed to be writhing in labour, in its effort to push greenery out at every angle. Even the air smelt rich – of loam, cardamom and cloves, salted with a tang of the sea. The coconut palms jostled with each other on both sides of the tracks, crowding out the horizon and shrinking the sky to a little blue patch, directly above. Sometimes, through the mass of slender trunks, he could catch the scimitar flash of a lagoon in the distance. And in the east, hanging in the air, above the palms, he could see pale, silvery mountains.
But three days of sitting still, even if in a first-class compartment, would bore anyone. All that Jyoti Das could feel now was the stiffness in his joints and the grime on his skin. He could see veins of dirt in the creases of his shirt and trousers, but there was nothing he could do about it, for he had used up all the changes of clothing he had brought with him on the train. That worried him, for it meant that he would have to meet Dubey, the ASP in Mahé, in grimy clothes. Dubey was a real ASP, posted in a district, and ASPs in districts live like minor potentates, with platoons of orderlies to wash and iron their uniforms. Jyoti Das knew Dubey a little; they had been contemporaries at the Academy, though not friends, for Dubey had been known there chiefly by his reputation for stupidity (which, thought Jyoti, was saying quite a lot in that crowd). Dubey, very likely, never wore the same uniform twice in a month. He had lived well, even at the Academy. Especially after his marriage, when he was given, or so people said, a television set, a refrigerator, a car and several lakhs of rupees along with a wife. But, then, those were the going rates for a police officer in Bihar and eastern Uttar Pradesh.
At least there was the possibility of seeing a paradise flycatcher. He had brought his watercolours with him, just in case. He had seen one the last time he was in Kerala, o
n a compulsory tour of India during his training, but his colleagues were with him then, and he would not have dreamt of pulling out his sketchpad with them watching. This time, perhaps. As for the case, it was almost certainly going to be a waste of time, despite Dubey’s urgent telex. Five months had passed since the raid, and the case was more or less closed as far as he was concerned. But he shut his eyes, and turned away from the window, for even now he could not help shutting his eyes whenever he thought of the raid and saw that flare – fired only as a warning – sending up the whole house. God, there was no point in going on with the business. But Dubey’s telex had arrived, and the DIG had sent him on his way. What was the use? Dubey could have handled whatever there was to handle himself, instead of dragging him all the way from Calcutta.
Of course there was the paradise flycatcher, but hardly worth being dragged all the way from Calcutta for, especially in winter with the zoo full of birds. There was something else, too, but about that he didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. His mother had wanted him to take a look at a girl. He had more or less ritually refused to go. But his mother had gone ahead and fixed a day, and in the end he had agreed to go with her. He didn’t particularly wish to be married, but he didn’t particularly wish not to be married. And if it brought peace at home – well, then. But now it would have to wait. Of course, there was the flycatcher.
As the train draws in at Mahé, Jyoti Das is irritated and thoroughly resentful – at being made to sit in a train for three days, at the unnecessary exertion, at the waste of time … A waste of time, he thinks. He is wrong, but he does not know it. He is about to be launched on the greatest adventure of his life.
