Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

But where are the peanuts? Eyes riveted to the stage, craning over the hundreds of shoulders in front of him, Alu sends his hands wandering through his pockets, looking for that just-bought jet of twisted paper, filled with nuts, whole coarse-veined nuts waiting to be broken, waiting for the red kernels inside to be worried out and rubbed in minty green salt, for the shells to drop to the floor to be stamped into the earth by those thousands of feet, all shifting nervously now, as the whole great tent watches, awestruck, while the demons dance, encircling the heroes in rings of fire, beating them to the ground with their uncountable arms, dancing on their chests with their clawed feet, reaching for the victory that is almost theirs. And just then, suddenly, all too accidentally, a spanner drops into the shooting rapids of cloth, into the heart of the grinding machine, and, screaming, the demons freeze. A sigh of relief rises from the men on the floor, and they lean back for a few stolen minutes to finish conversations and light cigarettes. But Alu is on his feet, cheering and throwing peanuts, until he has to be led outside, still noisily celebrating the tiny victories of the men who live with demons.

Outside they found Gopal, standing at the tea-shop, his face crumpled with anxiety, holding a cloth bundle. When he saw Alu he ran across the road and hugged him, stammering with relief.

Such news! An elderly brother-in-law in the High Court (mainly revenue and taxation, but also a few criminal sometimes to make a bit of money) was visiting a prospective client in Lalbazar Police Station when he heard search orders being given out for an address in Hazra Road — Gopal’s address. Gopal’s house was to be searched; there could be no doubt for whom.

The bundle was thrust into Alu’s hands. Alu opened it and found the few clothes Gopal had bought him, Gopal’s own copy of the Life of Pasteur and 8000 rupees. Gopal smiled in embarrassment. Your uncle had left it with me, to invest. It’s yours now. Alu looked at him and Gopal looked away. But Alu didn’t argue. He bent down and touched Gopal’s feet. Gopal hugged him once, blindly, and then he was gone, back to the flat in Hazra Road, to send his wife away and wait for the police alone.

Rajan knew, as soon as he saw Alu standing in the road with a bundle in his hands. Alu tried to mumble an explanation, but Rajan stopped him. What was the use of talking and explanations? Everyone saw these things every day. It was not the time for talk. Within minutes Alu had a list of addresses and a letter. With those, and boils erupting all over him, he passed down a chain of Rajan’s Chalia kinsmen, scattered over every factory along the South-Eastern Railway, paying out parts of his 8000 rupees where Rajan had told him to, down, down, steadily southwards, stopping to catch his breath in the great mills of Madurai and Coimbatore, till whispers came that the police had orders and a sketch, Rajan had been taken in … Then it was time to leave the railways behind, time to slip into the forests of the Nilgiris, led by Rajan’s great-grandfather’s cousin’s great-grandson, along elephant trails and deer tracks through clouds in blue mountains, then over the watershed, into Kerala, a step into a magical prawn malai curry, redolent of cardamom and cinnamon, sharp with cloves, sweet with the milk of coconuts enough to float the world. He spent the nights secreted away in the Chalia quarters of scattered villages, lulled to sleep by the cheerful knocking of hundreds of fly-shuttles in familiar looms; but then again, suddenly, rumours of informers, of reports to the police, so faster still, westwards, down through the mountains, faster and faster …

Where were the files then?

A little before sunset Das and Dubey set out for the village in which the prisoner was being held. The car took them into the little town and towards the river, through narrow roads lined with brightly lit shops. Their windows were crammed with bottles and their signs read: IMFL–Indian-Made Foreign Liquor.

Dubey pointed out of the window. Do you booze? This is the place for it. Dirt cheap and good stuff, too.

Das’s eyes slid down to Dubey’s wrist, to a heavy gold watch. He stared at it enviously. Of course, he could have got it from his father-in-law. Could have. A town which lives on the liquor trade — gold watches were probably thrown at everyone from the revenue clerk upwards. What else could one ask for? No DIG sitting on you, forget about promotions and life insurance and provident funds and house-rent allowances. Money no problem — a peaceful, simple life.

Dubey was pointing at a large pink and green house with round portholes for windows. It bristled with air-conditioners. Some of the houses around it were larger, some newer, some even more strikingly opulent.

That man went to al-Ghazira for five years, Dubey said. He was just a mechanic and look at him now. Look at all the rest of them. He’s almost illiterate, you know, but I’m still ashamed to ask him to my house.

Don’t worry, Das murmured. You’ll catch up; it’s just a matter of time.

Of course, Dubey went on, ignoring him, a lot of them are smugglers. You won’t believe how much smuggling goes on here. Mainly it’s gold coming in, from all over the world — Kenya, Tanzania, Iran, the Gulf. But there are other things, too — electronic things, watches …

Look! he jogged Das’s elbow. A paper-thin slice of metal lay in his palm, barely filling it. He poised a finger over a button. There was a soft electronic chime and the display panel lit up. He ran his fingers over it and numbers flashed on to the panel and disappeared, accompanied by a tattoo of chimes. Nice thing, no? Dubey said. Lots of these things lying around here.

He jabbed Das in the ribs, grinning: Maybe your DIG likes these little things? I’m sure he has a son or two who have exams? No?

Das shook his head and looked out of the window. They were passing a lagoon. The water flamed with the crimson of the setting sun. Palms leant languidly across the water and they could see boatmen in conical hats rowing their catamarans out to sea.

It’s very beautiful here, Das said.

Yeah, yeah, Dubey said. It’s beautiful for five days, a week. After that …

Das spotted a Malabar kingfisher on a telegraph pole and turned in his seat as they drove past it. What’s the matter? Dubey said curiously. It’s a …, Das began and stopped himself just in time. He remembered an occasion at the Academy when, interrupting one of Dubey’s monologues on their colleagues, he had pointed out a pheasant-tailed jaçana.

Which year did he join? Dubey had said worriedly, searching his mind. Is he in the police? I don’t think I’ve heard the name …

It had made a good story, but on the whole it had told against him rather than against Dubey. People had thought he was showing off. Dubey had been furious. Still, Malabar kingfishers were probably all right, but if Dubey ever heard him talking about some less familiar species, like Siberian cranes or something like that, he was more than likely to send off a telegram to their superiors reporting him for consorting with undesirable foreigners. He was said to be very competitive, Dubey, for all his thick-headedness. Wouldn’t stop at anything.

What? said Dubey again, waiting for an answer.

I was wondering, Das said quickly. You explained what they smuggle in, but what do they smuggle out? Coconuts?

Coconuts! Dubey laughed. Those people don’t want coconuts over there. No, what they smuggle out is people.

He stopped and stroked his moustache. Sometimes I wish, he said, that someone would smuggle me out — to another posting, I mean. I’m sick of this place. It would help if I got a promotion or an especially good annual report. If we get your chap today or within the next couple of days, maybe your DIG … They say he knows a lot of people.