Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

He looked anxiously across. Das nodded. The car turned off the main road and turned into a narrow lane flanked by banks of earth and laterite walls. A little later it stopped outside a flat-roofed yellow building, unmistakably a police station. The squat, ugly building contrasted sharply with the houses around it, which were white with ornately carved wooden posts, and tiled roofs that stopped just a few feet short of the ground.

A constable in starched khaki shorts came running out of the station. He stood at attention and saluted, his stiff shorts swinging like bells. Dubey acknowledged the salute with a brief gesture. Das saw a crowd of children gathering across the street. As he walked past, one of them called out shyly: Hul-lo hul-lo, jol-ly fel-low.

Embarrassed, Das looked quickly ahead, fervently hoping the constable would not make a scene. The constable had not noticed. As he stepped into a large neon-lit room, he heard the boy chant again, somewhere behind hin: Hul-lo hul-lo, jol-ly fel-low.

A table at the far end of the room was covered with plates of food and bottles of soft drinks. Dubey rounded on the constable. How many times have I told you not to waste money like this? he shouted in Hindi.

The constable looked down at his sandalled feet, smiling shyly and wriggling. Automatically, drawn by the force of years of habit, his hand reached under his shorts to pull his shirt straight. Stop that! Dubey snapped. Stand at attention when I’m talking to you.

The constable jumped to attention. Dubey shrugged and turned to Das: Come on, we may as well eat, now that it’s here. They sat behind the table on straight-backed chairs and filled their plates with banana chips and crisp muruka.

Have you talked to the man? Dubey asked the constable.

Yes, saar-ey , the constable answered.

What did he say?

The constable scratched his head. This man is a Chalia, saar-ey , he said, and he has a relative in Calcutta. A man came to him with a letter from his relative, so he led him to Mahé. After that he won’t say anything.

What do you mean, he won’t say anything? Dubey said and stopped abruptly. There was a low but distinct rumbling sound outside the police station. He listened for a moment, his head cocked. He decided to ignore it: Why won’t he say anything?

We tried, saar-ey , the constable said, but he won’t talk. Perhaps you could talk to him.

Does he speak Hindi or English?

Yes, a little bit of Hindi.

All right, Dubey said, bring him in.

The constable gestured to another, who disappeared into a corridor. Again they heard the rumbling sound outside. Dubey picked up a cane and pointed out of the window: What’s that noise?

The constable screwed up his eyes and peered out of the window into the darkness. Just some local people, saar-ey , he said dismissively, gathered outside the arrack-shop across the road.

The other constable came back, leading a bare-chested man in a green lungi. He was a powerfully built man, with a broad muscular chest, but now his eyes were bloodshot and he hung his head. Dubey looked him over and told a constable to switch the neon lights off and train a light on the prisoner’s face. Das smiled wrily: Copy-book technique.

Dubey gave him a twitch of his lips in acknowledgement. Then, patting his open palm with the cane, he walked up to the prisoner and said softly: I just want to know one thing, that’s all. Where is that man now?

The prisoner hung his head in silence. Dubey looked at him for a moment, then he spun on his booted heel and smiled thinly at Das: Why don’t we see what the Union Secretariat can do?

Das hesitated, taken by surprise, but Dubey was watching him, smiling. He got up and went up to the man in the lungi, trying hard not to advertise his nervousness by swallowing. He took Dubey’s cane from him and prodded the man in the chest. Listen, you, he said. He raised his voice, for he could sense a hint of a tremor at the back of his throat: Don’t make trouble for yourself. Just tell us: where is that man now?

The prisoner stared silently at Das’s shoes. Das rubbed his right hand. Then he pulled his hand back and smashed the back of his palm across the prisoner’s face, swivelling with the blow, throwing all his weight behind it. The man howled and clutched his cheek. Slowly he crumpled to his knees.

Das stuffed his smarting hand into his pocket before the temptation to rub it could become irresistible. He felt his bile churn and rise, searing the back of his throat. He glanced across the room hoping Dubey would not notice his hand shaking. Dubey raised a congratulatory eyebrow. Tough cop, he said.

Suddenly Das was startled. He seemed to hear a chant somewhere: Hul-lo hul-lo, jol-ly fel-low. The noise outside had grown; now scattered shouts pierced the rumbling. He heard the chant again, close by. Looking around him he spotted a pair of eyes peeping through a crack in a shuttered window. He said quickly: Dubey, we should move to some other room. This isn’t at all suitable.

Dubey rapped out an order and the prisoner was led out of the room holding his bleeding cheek. Dubey made a remark as they followed the prisoner out, but the noise had grown so loud that Das could not hear him. What? he shouted.

I said, we’ve got to get him to talk now or … Das strained forward to hear him, but Dubey’s words were lost, for suddenly the noise outside gathered itself together and erupted into a full-throated roar. In the moment’s silence that followed Das heard a thin voice piping: Hul-lo hul-lo, jol-ly fellow. Then another roar, even louder. They could hear the glass rattling in the windows. Quickly they moved into a small windowless room inside.

What are they shouting? Das asked, trying to speak calmly. Dubey did not answer.

Han? Dubey?

I don’t know, Dubey said shortly.

Das thought for a moment. You mean to say, he began. A stone flew through the outer room and rolled down the corridor towards them. Preoccupied, Das picked it up and rubbed it between his hands. You mean to say, he said, that you haven’t passed your departmental language examinations?

There were more shouts outside, and stones clattered on the shuttered windows. Frowning, Das went on: Doesn’t it hold up your salary increments?

It’s much worse, Dubey confided in a rush. Not only are they holding up my increments, now there’s talk of withholding payment into my gratuity and provident funds. It’s terrible — you don’t know. You chaps in your home states are lucky; you don’t know what it’s like for us. (Das flinched as a roar shook the walls.) I’ve got myself a teacher and I’ve tried to learn the bloody lingo, but it’s impossible. You’d never believe the kinds of words these buggers think up.

A constable stood before them, nervously shifting his weight from leg to leg. He looked scared. Saar-ey …, he said.

Dubey went to the prisoner and prodded his chin up with the point of the cane. Look, he said, tell us the truth and you’ll be out of here in ten minutes. We don’t want to keep you — just tell us the truth. Don’t talk, and I’ll see to it that you’re here for ten years. Now, just tell us: where is that man right now? Don’t make me lose my temper.

The man swallowed and brushed a trickle of blood from his cheek. There was a heavy thud on the outer door of the station, and they heard it creak. Dubey ignored it. Looking straight into the prisoner’s eyes, he laid the tip of his cane on the bridge of his nose. Come on, where is he now?

He’s on a boat for al-Ghazira, the prisoner said in halting Hindi. Mariamma . It left two days ago.

In his disappointment Dubey smashed his cane on the floor, so hard that it splintered and broke. Das patted him on the back: Never mind, you’ll get your report anyway. I’ll talk to the DIG.