Amitav Ghosh - The Circle of Reason

Dubey ignored him. Glaring, he shouted at the prisoner: Why al-Ghazira?

The prisoner was no longer hanging his head. He was looking straight at Dubey, and there was a faint hint of triumph in the angle of his head. He said nothing.

Dubey shouted again: Why al-Ghazira? Does he have connections there? People who work with him?

The outer door was groaning and creaking ominously now, and the constables were cowering in a corner. The prisoner was still silent. Das tapped Dubey on the shoulder, but his hand was brushed away. Doubling his splintered cane, Dubey held it to the prisoner’s stomach. He drew his arm back: Come on, quickly. Does he have connections there?

Silently the prisoner nodded. Turning to Das, Dubey said sharply: Any more questions? Das shook his head.

Good, said Dubey. He waved to a constable. Let him go after we’ve gone, but keep an eye on him.

In the outer room shards of glass from a broken window-pane crackled under their shoes. Das noticed an orange glow filtering in under the door. He put his eye to a crack in the shutters and looked out. He caught a glimpse of flaming palm-leaf torches and a dense mass of people thronged into the narrow road outside the police station. Then suddenly there was another eye opposite his and a voice was singing: Hul-lo hul-lo, jol-ly fel-low.

Das jumped back. Dubey, he said, maybe you should issue arms to the constables. Dubey nodded and spoke to the Head Constable. They watched the constables filling registers, unlocking the arms cabinet and fingering the rifles inside.

Dubey said: Let’s hope they don’t join the crowd — they haven’t got their dearness allowance for three months.

The Head Constable prised the heavy outer door open and prodded the tip of his ancient rifle through. A hush fell on the crowd. The other constables fanned out behind him and the two officers stepped out.

Their driver had prudently taken their car to a lane a little way off when the crowd had begun to collect. The constables cleared a path for them with jabs of their rifles. Das walked quickly, trying not to notice the angry silence rustling around them and the shuffles and the lunges that were arrested by indecision. He could see no faces, only shadows flickering in the torchlight. He forced his head up and slowed his pace. He sensed running feet behind him, and he felt his muscles stiffen with tension. He looked down without turning his head. It was the same little boy.

They were at the edges of the crowd now. He could feel the tension snapping in the air; he saw feet thrust out, arms drawn back, hesitating, waiting for a lead. Then they were through, climbing into the car, trying not to look back.

Das sank into his seat and breathed deeply. Then he saw the boy’s face again, at the window: Hul-lo hul-lo, jol-ly fel-low. The boy drew his head back, opened his mouth and spat. But Jyoti Das had already managed to wind the window up, and the spit dribbled harmlessly down the glass.

Next moment the car jumped forward and the boy was thrown aside. The crowd roared and surged into the lane, but the car was already picking up speed. They heard two stones strike the roof and roll off clanging loudly. And then they turned a corner and left the crowd far behind them. The gob of spittle was soon blown off the window.

Really, Das said, looking at Dubey, it’s incredible. Something should be done about it — stopping your increments and your gratuity and provident fund instalments! Can’t the Officers’ Association do anything?

Dubey shook his head. He was huddled morosely in a corner. How’s a man to live? he said. At least you people get city-compensatory allowance; in this place we don’t even get that. And it’s not bad enough for a hardship allowance, either.

For a while Dubey stared silently out of the window. Then he clenched his fists and muttered: Someday I’ll clean the place up, really clean it up. Chaos, nothing but bloody chaos. Give me one battalion of the Central Reserve Police, just one, and I’ll clean them up like they’ve never been cleaned up before. They won’t know what hit them. These local constables are no good. They’re paid by those buggers — same lingo, same bloody people … Just one battalion.

He saw Das looking at him and stopped. He drew a deep breath. So, Das! Congratulations!

Congratulations? Das said, bewildered. Why?

On your foreign trip, you fool. Don’t you see? If you give your DIG or whoever the line that the Suspect has joined up with some Middle Eastern terrorist groups or something, they’ll have to send you there to follow up. That’s why I wanted to get that man to confess that the Suspect has connections there — all for your sake. Now you can safely put it in your report. It’s very simple: there are hundreds of terrorist groups and things there and he’s bound to get involved with them. You must follow up that angle and even use a bit of pressure perhaps. And you watch; if you’re sensible, you’ll get a foreign trip. To al-Ghazira. Don’t let them take you off the case now.

Really, Das thought, he’s not at all as stupid as people say. In fact, he’s quite shrewd. He felt a little dizzy; he had never been abroad before. A pleasant thrill of apprehension coursed through him and he shivered.

I wonder what daily allowances and travel allowances the Ministry will give you, Dubey said enviously. Lucky bastard. God, the things you’ll be able to buy! Everything imported.

Jyoti Das did not answer. He was thinking of al-Ghazira. A new sky, a whole new world of birds. Wasn’t al-Ghazira on one of the major migration routes? He would have to do a bit of reading at the National Library. What would the colours be like? he wondered.

That night Dubey took him to dine with the Chief Administrator of Mahé. When they arrived, Jyoti spent a long time marvelling at the house: a great blue mansion, set in a luxuriance of magnolia, hibiscus and frangipani, with a façade draped in tiers of jalousies and wooden shutters. The Administrator, a tall, smiling man, answered Jyoti’s questions with a casual wave — the French built it, their administrator lived here before — he was clearly bored with an explanation too frequently asked for. He led them to a paved terrace behind the house that looked out over the Mahé river and the sea beyond. They drank cold beer and listened to the shouts of fishermen in butterfly-sailed boats wafting in on the sea breeze.

Soon Dubey was very drunk and the Administrator was frowning worriedly. He went into the house, and when he came back he said: Come up, we’ll have dinner now. He tried to hurry them up a wooden staircase to his apartments above, but halfway up Dubey caught Jyoti by the elbow and ran down the stairs, while the Administrator called after them, annoyed. Still holding Jyoti’s arm Dubey led him to a glass-panelled door at the far end of the terrace. Like boys, they cupped their hands and peered through the glass. Jyoti could see nothing, for it was very dark inside. Dubey tried the handle on the door, and it opened, creaking on rusty hinges. Light streamed in from the terrace, and Jyoti saw that they were in a large, high-ceilinged room, divided by fluted columns. Chandeliers covered with grimy sheets of tarpaulin hung from the ceiling. A wall of dust-encrusted mirrors shone dully at the far end of the room. The room hummed with the roaring of the sea outside.

This was the ballroom, said Dubey. He looked about him open-mouthed, his eyes shining with wonder. Jyoti was surprised; he had not thought Dubey capable of wonder.

This is where all those French lords and ladies used to dance, Dubey said. He slid a foot along the wooden floor, leaving a trail in the dust. Then he raised himself on his toes and swung his plump, sleek body around in a drunken pirouette.