Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

As for his painting, it would be better protected in the police than anywhere else, for it is only when the world you have to make your way in has no real connection with you that your private world is safe.

His father was cold to him for two years afterwards. Jyoti ignored him and tried hard during his training. As a result he did well enough at the Academy to be taken into the Union Secretariat. That was a considerable achievement, for usually getting into the Union Secretariat was a matter of knowing people and talking to uncles. His father thawed, for he soon discovered that, far from shouting ‘Left, right’ at constables, Jyoti’s work consisted in analysing files and writing reports like any other Class I bureaucrat.

Jyoti was relieved because he liked peace at home, and in his own way he was happy in the Union Secretariat. The initial training had been exhausting and the work often seemed pointless, but that was only to be expected. But on the whole it wasn’t too demanding, and at least he didn’t have to wear uniforms. Actually, though he would never have admitted it to his father, he had dreaded the prospect of being posted to a district and having to spend years rushing about catching dacoits and ordering half-trained constables to shoot at mobs. But much more important than any of that was that the Union Secretariat left him time to draw and paint birds. His painting, with his knowledge of ornithology, had improved vastly. A well-known illustrator had been impressed by his watercolour of a green bee-eater — a common bird, but tinted with gradations of colour that were not at all easy to capture in watercolours. There was even some talk of a contract to illustrate a children’s book.

Twelve o’clock and still no sign of Bhudeb Roy. In a way Jyoti Das was not surprised. He had never thought the case would amount to very much. But for some reason his boss, the Deputy Inspector-General (actually, the Additional Director of Research), had decided to take the case very seriously. Handing over the files, he had said: This is going to be an important one. Let’s see how you handle it. I want you to give it all your time; it may make a lot of difference to your career.

Jyoti Das had read through the files conscientiously, but at the end of it he was still unable to understand why the case was so important. To him it seemed a thoroughly trivial affair. There appeared to be no rational grounds to substantiate the principal source’s belief that a retired schoolmaster in his village was being used by a foreign-trained agent of some kind, disguised as a weaver, to run a network of extremists. Of course it was possible — there were so many refugees in those border areas and they were good clay for anyone’s hands. But somehow in this case, Jyoti Das noted on the file, it seemed more likely that some kind of petty village rivalry lay behind the whole thing. At any rate, the local police could easily handle the matter. The Deputy Inspector-General was furious when he saw Jyoti Das’s notations on the file. He had summoned Jyoti Das to his room and said: Mr Das, how long have you been in the Secretariat? A few months, if I’m not mistaken. What the hell, man, you are still not knowing a case from a cauliflower? You think this is a joke? You think you’re already some kind of James Bond and you can question my judgement? When I say this is an important case, you treat it as an important case, and none of your bloody opinions and chit-chat, shit-shat. Jyoti Das had sprung to attention and snapped off a salute. Stop that, the DIG had said. You’re not in the police now. Then he had smiled and given Jyoti a fatherly pat: And never talk of handing the local police a case. The first rule in this bloody garden is that no one hands any cuttings to the police. You’ll soon find out. Those buggers are always trying to hog our work anyway. If we go around handing them cases, we’ll soon have nothing to show for ourselves and no work to do. Now, get out of here and keep me up on how the case develops.

Now it looked as though the case wasn’t going to develop at all: the chief source had disappeared. Tell me, Jyoti Das said to the Head Constable, I suppose you know him — is he always late, or do you think something serious has happened?

The constable shuffled his feet and nervously rubbed the brass buckle on his belt with his thumb. Jyoti Das looked at him and sat up: What’s the matter, Constable?

Sir, he may have been held up, the constable said uneasily. People say he’s been having trouble.

Trouble?

Trouble at home, sir.

Come on, Constable, Jyoti Das said. Wake up. Haven’t you been trained to give reports properly? Now, explain: what trouble?

The constable left the window and shuffled across. He lowered his voice: ASP-shaheb, it’s his wife. She had a child five or six years ago — a girl. The girl’s always been very sickly and recently she fell seriously ill — you know what happens when people have children at such a late age. Bhudeb Roy-babu has taken the girl to all the best doctors, but nobody has been able to do anything. And now, they say, the girl’s illness has driven Parboti-debi, that is, Bhudeb Roy-babu’s wife, a little mad. I heard from a man in the village — he owns a cycle-shop and knows Bhudeb-babu and his family very well — he said that twice, late at night, Bhudeb-babu and his sons have caught Parboti-debi trying to sneak out of the house with the child. Bhudeb-babu was very angry, sir, naturally. He slapped her — in front of all his sons — and asked her: Where are you going to at this time of the night? But she, she didn’t cry at all. She looked straight at him, without lowering her eyes, and said: I’m taking her home; she’s sick because she’s not at home. Right in his face like that. Naturally Bhudeb-babu was even angrier. He shouted at her: What do you mean, ‘her home’? This is her home. But then she shouted back at him and said: No, this is not her home; her home is there — and she waved outside, maybe towards the school. You see, sir, they say that the night the child was, if you’ll excuse me, conceived there was a plane crash in the village — it was during the war, you see — and people say the crash warped her brain a bit. She thinks the plane had something to do with the child, and wants to take her back to the place where it crashed. It’s very sad. She shouts at Bhudeb-babu all the time: Let me go. Let me take the child home. You’ll kill it. It’ll die if it stays here. Poor woman; soon they’ll have to send her to Ranchi or some other asylum. Of course, he can afford it.

Jyoti Das was incredulous. You mean to say — you mean to say he’s kept me waiting for almost two hours because his wife’s going mad?

The constable looked at his feet. Maybe, sir, he said.

At a quarter to one, they heard a car stop outside the police station. Greatly relieved the Head Constable announced: He’s here, sir — and sent two constables running out to escort Bhudeb Roy and three of his sons in. Jyoti Das did not move. He sat as he was, his legs crossed, leaning back in his chair. He decided not to stand up when Bhudeb Roy entered the room.

Bhudeb Roy’s huge bulk entered the room by degrees. His three sons helped him into a chair opposite the Head Constable’s desk. Jyoti Das nodded at him and frowned. He shot his cuffs back and looked pointedly at his watch. Bhudeb Roy ignored him. He snapped his fingers and with a flick of his wrist sent his sons and the constables hurrying out of the room. He was silent for a moment, breathing hard, and looking Jyoti Das over critically. Then he leant across and smiled: I hope you had a nice rest this morning. I hope the constable made you comfortable. He’s not a bad man but a little foolish.

Jyoti Das looked at his tiny, glassy eyes and flat nose; he saw the thin smile splintering the sagging flesh of his face, like a crack cutting through a mound of baking mud, and quickly looked away, out of the open window. He said curtly: Your telegram said your business was very urgent.