Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

And just then, when the issue was as good as decided, Dantu rose to his feet. Balaram, he said, everyone here knows that we are friends. They know that I’ve never had any doubt that you are the best person to be president of this society. But today — and I wish it were not so — today I have to say that on this business I think you’re absolutely, totally wrong.

Balaram glanced quickly around the room. He could see from the watchful faces around him that everything hung in the balance now; that his answer would decide the future of his enterprise. He clasped his hands before him and leant back: Why?

Because I can’t help remembering what you said to Gopal once in this very room. You said: What good will it do anyone if the people of Hindusthan begin to chant He Boson instead of He Ram ? I think you have to answer the same question today. What good will it do anyone if the students of this college begin to wash their underwear not only every day, but also every hour? Will it make any difference to anyone? Dirt doesn’t lie in underwear. It is the world, the world of people, which makes dirt possible. How can you hope to change people’s bodies without changing the world?

A painfully slow moment dragged by. Then, very gravely, Balaram said: Why do we always think of changing the world and never of changing people? Surely, surely, if we succeed in making even one person, just one, ask of himself how can I be a better, cleaner human being, we will have changed the world; changed it in the best of possible ways.

Dantu hesitated, torn between loyalty to Balaram and his own beliefs. He could sense that Balaram had carried the others with him.

It’s a mistake, Balaram, he said quickly, a terrible mistake — you’ll see. And then he dropped on to the mat and huddled back against the wall.

There were no more objections. A small but enthusiastic group volunteered to help Balaram organize the campaign. Dantu said nothing more about the matter. Once, days later, when Balaram tried to talk to him about it, he murmured sadly: It won’t work, Balaram, you’ll see. I only hope nothing terrible happens. And he went racing off to a lecture and left Balaram standing in the middle of the corridor.

There were a few other sceptics among the Rationalists who whispered behind their hands that this was just another of Balaram’s fancy ideas. He wouldn’t be able to do anything about it — how could anyone organize a campaign for clean underwear? It was just a lot of talk; he wouldn’t even be able to begin when it came to it.

Balaram proved them wrong.

He began by racking his brains for a catchy name for the campaign. A few days’ thought produced: The Campaign for Clean Clouts. The majority of the Rationalists were enthusiastic. Some went so far as to call it a masterpiece of alliteration. But one of the English literature people objected: It’s an archaism; no one will know what it means. Balaram swept him aside: All the better; it’ll make them curious.

He decided to launch the campaign with a public meeting. The venue was a problem at first. A few of the Rationalists argued that it ought to be held in a lecture room. Balaram considered the proposal quite seriously but eventually decided against it. Lecture rooms, he said, are no better than bookshelves; as soon as you enter one you know that everything inside is dead. Instead he decided to hold the meeting at the top of the great flight of stairs which lead up from the portico in the main building of Presidency College to the wide veranda of the first floor. No one can ignore it there, he said. They’ll come in their hundreds, you’ll see.

After that Balaram wrote out notices announcing the meeting. He kept the notices deliberately vague. They said only: Meeting to launch the Campaign for Clean Clouts — come, see, listen and begin a new life. Underneath he wrote the date and the time in small but distinct letters.

Over the next two weeks Balaram leaked the notices out a few at a time. He stuck a few up on pillars and in other prominent places, but always took them down a few hours later. Occasionally he slipped one or two into a few chosen rooms in the Eden Hindu Hostel. People will be more intrigued, he explained, if there aren’t too many of them.

It worked. Days before the meeting there was a buzz of curiosity in the college and in the hostel. The Rationalists were under strict instructions to say nothing; but a few, as Balaram had calculated, could not help dropping scattered hints. That only served to whet the general curiosity.

When the day came, even the most sceptical of the Rationalists admitted that they had been wrong. The meeting was a triumph for Balaram even before it began. There were no less than a hundred and fifty students crowded on to those stairs. Middle Parting and his friends were conspicuous in the centre of the crowd. They were as boisterous as ever, but they were also curious. When Balaram, shivering with nervousness but immensely elated, climbed on to a chair to begin the meeting, the crowd was still growing. It was the best possible tribute to his talent for organization.

So Balaram was perhaps the only person in Lalpukur who was not surprised by the success of the Pasteur School of Reason. He had a shrewd appreciation of his own abilities.

Once the idea of the Pasteur School of Reason had been conceived in his mind, Balaram had no doubt that he would be able to organize the school successfully. But he was also astute enough to know that he would have to work hard to make other people share his optimism. He had learnt that lesson from his experience with the Rationalists.

He was not wrong. Shombhu Debnath burst into frank laughter when Balaram first put the idea to him. You’re wrong, Balaram-babu, he said hoarsely, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m no teacher. I certainly wouldn’t be able to teach in a school.

Balaram was determined to be patient. Shombhu Debnath was essential to his plans. He thought for a moment, looking around him at Shombhu Debnath’s bare courtyard, dappled by the failing evening light. He gripped the edge of the rickety chair that had been carried out for him and leant forward, towards Shombhu Debnath, who was squatting on the earth. You’re a very good teacher, he said and he pointed at Alu, who was working in the loom-shed. Look how well you’ve taught Alu. It’s your duty to teach others as well. There are so many people in the village today who have nothing to do, no way of earning a living. You could teach them a way, and you must. It’s your duty, not just to them, but to yourself. Teaching is your destined vocation — it’s written all over your skull. You cannot squander your gifts. You could teach them your craft and together we could teach them more than a craft. We could show them the beginning of a new history.

Shombhu Debnath snorted. You can keep your history, he said, picking at his blackened teeth with a blade of grass. I don’t want anything to do with it. Whenever people like you start talking about history you can be sure it means nothing but trouble for people like me.

He rose to his feet and looked away. No, Balaram-babu, he said, you’re wasting your time. There’s no point in going on with this.

Suddenly he paused and his red eyes narrowed. Does this business have anything to do with Bhudeb Roy? he said sharply.

Certainly not, said Balaram.

But this … school will be right next to Bhudeb Roy’s house? I mean, it will be in your house? Will it?

Balaram nodded eagerly. Shombhu Debnath smiled. His red eyes gleamed at Balaram. All right, he said. Maybe I’ll teach in your school. It won’t do me any harm. Why not?

Balaram jumped to his feet in elation. He had expected days of argument before Shombhu Debnath agreed; it was nothing less than a windfall. He slapped Shombhu Debnath on his bare back. You’re doing the right thing, Shombhu-babu, he said, choking with joy. Our school couldn’t have a better beginning.