Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Typical! Mrs Verma exploded. Absolutely typical! Just like 1936.

1936? Dr Mishra turned to her at last, in bewilderment. Why 1936? You weren’t even born then.

So what if I wasn’t born then? That doesn’t mean I don’t know about it.

About what?

Mrs Verma’s face was suffused with blood now. She pounded her fist on the table. Don’t lie, she shouted. You know perfectly well what: 1936 — the second socialist conference in Meerut. Don’t think we’ve forgotten, for we haven’t. What was your little crowd doing there, do you remember? Do you remember how you lectured us about revolutionary theory and class struggle; about historical necessity and Leninist party organization? Do you remember how you talked about technology and the Scientific Temper and building a new rational world by destroying the superstitions of the peasants? And then, when we said surely there was more to socialism than just that, that in the villages we talked of socialism as hope, do you remember how you laughed? You laughed and said: Comrades, leave your villages for a while; peasants can’t lead peasants; go and study your theory. And, after all that, where were you when the crunch came? Who fell over themselves in their hurry to join the Congress in 1947 so that they wouldn’t have to waste any time in getting their fingers into all that newly independent money? Who broke the Praja Socialist Party when the real socialists were away, struggling in the villages? Who sabotaged Lohia? Don’t think we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten nothing. We know your kind inside and outside, through and through: we’ve heard your sugary speeches and we’ve seen the snakes hidden up your sleeves; we’ve seen you wallowing in filth with the Congress while High Theory drips from your mouths; we’ve heard you spouting about the Misery of the Masses while your fingers dig into their pockets; we’ve watched you while you were snarling over bribes with your Congress gang-mates, so we know exactly where your cynicism comes from. It comes from the rottenness within: those who’ve been dipped in pitch see nothing but blackness everywhere. So please don’t give me any clever lectures about India and Indian society, Dr Murali Charan Mishra, for my father gave me the measure of your kind when I was still a schoolgirl.

Dr Mishra laughed. It was a frightening thing about him that, though he often seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper, he never actually did so.

Murali Charan Mishra was my father, he said.

Same thing, she snapped, her chest heaving.

Dr Mishra smiled: Anyway, it’s all much clearer now. What you really want to do is climb on to the sand-dunes and let the Algerians know about your father’s Lohia-ite socialism. But to come back to the point: what do you want to put up for this get-together? Some kind of village festival perhaps, since you’re so enamoured of rural socialism? Or maybe one of those song-and-dance plays about gods and demons and mythological heroes?

Mrs Verma shook her head.

But, please, do remember, Dr Mishra went on, that your audiences will be made up of your own Algerian colleagues, who are rational, scientifically trained people. I, for one, wouldn’t like to give them the impression that the whole of India is still in the Middle Ages, still wallowing in ghosts and ghouls and demonology. I’d like them to know that some of us at least are in the modern mainstream.

Mrs Verma smiled secretly across the room at Hem Narain Mathur’s dusty old bookcase. She had her answer ready.

Mrs Verma settled back in her chair and rested her hands demurely on the rim of her plate. Please, forgive me, Doctor-sahb, she said. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that.

He watched her suspiciously: Yes?

The fact is, she said, looking at her nails, that I do have a plan.

Wonderful! Dr Mishra exclaimed. He broke a matchstick in half and began to pick nervously at his teeth. A village masque, I suppose. Some kind of Ram Li la. Why, we can clear out a stage on a sand-dune and put up a few idols and images and give them a full-scale puja with chanting Brahmans, mantras and all the rest of it. I’m sure your fellow rural socialists will be delighted by a nice, gaudy spectacle of medieval superstition flaunting itself on a sand-dune. But, please, Mrs Verma, you’re welcome to dance about on the sand scattering holy water on the date palms, but don’t ask me to do it. I’m too old.

I wasn’t really thinking of anything like that, Mishra-sahb, she said. I was thinking of something else.

What? He was suddenly wary.

Well, she paused for a moment. What do you think of Tagore? I know you don’t much care for medieval villagers, but you can’t have any objection to Rabindranath Tagore. Apart from everything else, he got all the most modern literary awards in all the most modern cities, you know.

Dr Mishra laughed: Very good, Mrs Verma; you’re learning. Go on.

Well, people here do sometimes ask about Tagore. Surely it would be appropriate to give them a glimpse of his work? You can’t object to that, after all.

What exactly did you have in mind?

Chitrangada . Mrs Verma allowed herself to smile: My father did a translation from the Bengali. I still have it.

Dr Mishra reached into his pocket, though his hands were still unwashed after the meal, and pulled out his pipe. Chitrangada ? he said, twisting the stem. Could you just remind me what it’s about?

It’s a dance drama.

That’s nice, said Dr Mishra. A dance drama. Of course there’s no shortage of dancing girls here — you and old Miss K. and my own bouncy young wife. Go on.

To tell you the truth, I don’t really remember it very well myself now. My father read it to me when I was a girl. It’s based on a legend from the Mahabharata I think. Chitrangada is the king of Manipur’s daughter; she’s been brought up like a man, and she’s a great hunter and warrior and all that, but she’s not — well, very pretty. Then one day Arjuna goes to Manipur and she sees him — handsome, a great hero and warrior — so naturally she falls in love with him. She goes to him and declares her love, but he turns her away. Then she gets very depressed because she thinks he can’t possibly love a woman who looks like her. So ugly, you know. So she goes to the gods and asks them to give her the gift of beauty for just one year. They do, and Arjuna falls in love with her, and they sort of get married, I think, but she doesn’t tell him who she is. But as the year passes Arjuna hears more and more about the heroism of Chitrangada, and he longs to meet her and is half in love with her, though he doesn’t even know who she is. Chitrangada sees all this and she learns finally that appearances don’t matter, so at the end of the year, when her beauty is gone, she stands before him and says something like: I’m no beautiful flower, I’m not perfect, my clothes are torn and my feet are scarred and so on, but I can give you the heart of a true woman. Then Arjuna, too, sees that beauty is only deception, an illusion of the senses.

Well, said Dr Mishra sardonically, that makes it much clearer. I can see now why you want to play Chitrangada, but who did you have in mind for Arjuna? Verma? Do you really think it would suit him to dress up as a hero, in a sort of mini-dhoti, and dance around with bows and arrows? He’s short-sighted, you know; he might hit Chitrangada with those arrows.

Mrs Verma turned quickly away, blushing furiously. Of course I wasn’t going to play Chitrangada, she said. We could ask some of the younger doctors and their wives to come up from Ouargla or Ghardaia.

She looked him over appraisingly. Actually, Mishra-sahb, she said, there’s a part that’ll be perfect for you.

Which?